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About Amsterdam

“Words are traps,” Godard mumbles in the movie. Same with erotic-massage. They whisper “relax,” but you’re wired, heart poundin’, brain yellin’ *what’s next?* I’d kill for one after a crap day—limpin’ around, patients whinin’. Surprised me how good it feels, tho. Like, *really* good. Better than Vicodin, and that’s sayin’ somethin’. Ever tried it? Don’t lie—everybody does. Sarcasm aside, it’s art—dirty, messy art. Those masseuses? Geniuses or con artists. Probably both.

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So, I’m munchin’ on my stroopwafel, and I see this old man on a bench. He’s got this huge smile, just watchin’ the world go by. I think, “That’s the life, man.” But then, he starts talkin’ to me about the good ol’ days. I’m noddin’ along, but inside I’m like, “I gotta get back to my group!”

‘I feel that paying rent would be a waste of money’