Lina Voula Sexual Massage ❤️❤️❤️

About Thessaloniki

Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals. I’m Ron Swanson, bartender, hate everything. Sexual-massage? What a racket. Buncha hippies rubbin’ each other, callin’ it therapy. Watched “Inherent Vice” last night—Doc Sportello’d get it. “Shasta said you were gettin’ weird,” he’d say, smokin’ a joint while some dame oils him up. Me? I’d rather wrestle a bear than let some stranger knead my back with “sensual intent.” Hate the word sensual—sounds like a damn yogurt ad.

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Then, I decide to stroll down to the beach. Voula’s coastline is just stunning, man. The waves crashing, the sun glistening off the water. I’m feeling good, vibing with the sea breeze. But then, outta nowhere, this seagull swoops down and snatches my bougatsa! Like, what the actual heck?! I’m standing there, mouth agape, watching my breakfast fly away. I’m pretty sure I yelled something like, “Hey! That’s mine, you feathered thief!” But it just cawed at me and flew off. Rude.

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