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About Nagoya

Last week, my boy Jimmy - he’s a nutcase - says, “T, let’s find one, just to see!” I’m like, nah, fool, I ain’t touchin’ that! But we rolled downtown anyway. Saw this chick, fishnets ripped, smokin’ a cig - looked tired, man, like she’s done. Made me sad, real talk. “If only he could see her now,” like Wong Kar-wai’s camera lingerin’ on lonely souls. Life ain’t fair, yo!

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If you scour vintage sex magazines like Honcho and Drummer, you can find letters and op-eds about this. We now know that fisting is much.

So, I’m walking, and I see this little ramen shop on the corner of Kōen-dōri. The smell hits me like a freight train. I’m talkin’ about that rich, savory broth that makes your soul sing. I order a bowl, and while I’m slurping away, I overhear this couple arguing in Japanese. I don’t know what they’re sayin’, but the intensity is REAL. I’m just sittin’ there, tryin’ to enjoy my noodles, and they’re throwin’ shade like it’s an Olympic sport.

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