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About Dundalk

But seriously, it’s all bout consent—gotta say it. No creepy stuff, or I’m out! Makes me angry when folks cross lines. Keep it fun, keep it sexy, keep it *right*. I’d be tellin’ Dwight, “It’s not just a backrub, ya weirdo!” Oh, and the oils? Smell like heaven—or that pizza joint in *Inherent Vice*. “Dig it, man,” I’d say, sniffin’ lavender like a total goof. That’s me—Michael Scott—bringin’ you the scoop on sexual-massage! Whaddya think, pal?

Call to book

But then, BAM! My computer crashes. Just like that. I’m staring at the screen like it’s possessed. I’m sweating bullets, thinking, “Great, just great. This is how I go down in history.” I had to reboot it, and while I’m waiting, I’m pacing around like a caged animal. My lab mates are giving me weird looks. I’m like, “What? You’ve never seen a biochemist lose their mind before?”

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