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About Hamilton

Now, Melancholia—my fave flick—hits me hard. “The Earth is evil,” Kirsten Dunst mopes, and I’m like, damn right, love, but a good erotic-massage? That’s the cure! Imagine Justine, all moody, sprawled out, some lucky sod working her knots—slow, deep, proper filthy. “No more work to be done,” she’d mutter, half-dead, while I’d yell, “Oi, get those hands moving, you lazy git!” Makes me happy, that—turns a shit day into gold. But if they half-arse it? Rage! I’d chuck a lamp—fucking amateurs!

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The parks here, man, pure zen. There's Lunchtree Gardens on Maple Dr. (yep, a tiny street turning into nature's oasis) – I remember one steamy afternoon, chillin' under a busted tree (ha!) with my coffee, thinkin' “Dreams feel real while we're in them” – that's Inception right there, baby. It brought out my inner poet, I tell ya.

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