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Alright, listen up, I’m freaking out here—sexual-massage, what a concept! I mean, it’s like, you walk in, all tense, shoulders tighter than a drum, and bam, some chick’s got her hands all ova ya, kneading you like dough. Pretty, pretty good, right? I’m analyzin’ this as a Business Analyst—supply, demand, it’s genius! People pay big bucks for this! I’m talkin’ hundreds sometimes, cash upfront, no questions. Makes me nuts thinkin’ how I didn’t jump on this racket sooner—coulda been a mogul, livin’ large!

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Then I stroll down to the beach. Bronte’s coastline is stunning, man. The waves crashing, the sun glistening off the water. I’m feeling good. But then I see this seagull. And not just any seagull. This dude is a menace. He swoops down and snatches my croissant right outta my hand! I’m standing there, mouth agape, like, “Did that just happen?” I swear, I’m gonna start carrying a stick to fend off these feathered thieves.

On publishing Charlotte Brontë’s miniature book of poems for the first time.