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Oh, quirky fact—there’s this Japanese style, Nuru, slimey as hell, seaweed gel! Slippin’ everywhere, like a damn eel fight. Cracked me up imaginin’ it—*Moulin Rouge!* vibes, “Spectacular, spectacular,” but messy. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but picturin’ some posh git slidin’ off a table—gold. Dunno, man, it’s wild how sexual-massage flips from taboo to “wellness” depending who’s talkin’. Me? I’d say it’s a hustle—pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,”—but damn if it ain’t fun to watch unfold. Whaddya reckon?

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I sat on a bench, pulled out my guitar, and started strumming. Just me and my six-string, right? But then, this random guy walks up and starts singing along. I’m like, “Dude, who invited you to my jam session?” But he had a decent voice, so I let it slide. We ended up jamming for a bit, and it was actually kinda cool.

How the brain decides between a fight or flight response