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About Ottawa

I love it tho, flaws and all. It’s raw, untamed, a lil dangerous—like me after too many margaritas. Escort’s not some posh, groomed trail; it’s a hot mess, and I’m here for it. “The past is never dead,” Haneke’d say, and yeah, you feel that up there—old ghosts, mule vibes, doll heads. Next time, I’m haulin’ you up with me, buddy. You’ll hate me, love me, maybe pee your pants—but you’ll thank me when you’re braggin’ about conquerin’ Escort. Now, where’s my damn coffee?

Ya see, I stroll down all these alleys and I feel the pulse of the city. From Parc Martial-Valois, bursting with trees and stray squirrels, to our beloved, murky Harricana River, where the mist flows at dawn. My massages, ohhh, they’ve felt the passion of every corner, my friend. I gave yer friend that “miraculous touch” on Rue des Aiguilles once, yes, my precious, while murmuring, “I’m free,” just like in that movie, or… something like that! It’s raw, it’s real, and oh so messy!

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