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About Sapporo

So, sex-dating—man, it’s a jungle. Apps like Grindr, Bumble, whatever, they’re all the same. People actin’ all hot n’ heavy, droppin’ lines like, “Wanna Netflix n’ chill?” Yeah, okay, buddy, chill with what—your crusty socks? I tried it once—swear to God, chick said she’s “adventurous,” code for “I’ll ghost ya after one drink.” Infuriating! Wasted my damn time. Coulda been watchin’ *Spotlight* again, gettin’ mad at the world instead of some flake. “You can’t handle the truth!”—damn right, ‘cause it’s buried under filters and fake moans.

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First thing, I’m mixing dough for my famous anpan. You know, the sweet red bean buns? Yeah, those. I’m humming some old J-Pop, feeling all good, when suddenly—BAM! The power goes out. Like, seriously? I’m standing there in the dark, flour everywhere, and I’m like, “Great, just great.”

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