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About Tromso

Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals! Sexual-massage, huh? Oh, it’s a twisted lil dance, ain’t it? Picture this—sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod thinkin’ he’s in paradise. Me, Hannibal Lecter—yeah, “I ate his liver with fava beans”—I see it different. It’s all flesh and whispers, a game of trust, slippery as hell. Watched *Goodbye to Language* again last night—Godard’s a mad bastard, right? “What’s visible is invisible,” he says, and damn if that ain’t true here. You think you’re feelin’ the touch, but it’s the mind screwin’ ya!

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After that chaos, we decide to grab some food. We hit up this little spot on Havnegata. The fish tacos? To die for! I’m munching away, and Erik’s telling me about his latest dating disaster. I’m like, “Dude, you gotta stop swiping right on everyone.” We’re cracking up, and I’m just so happy.

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