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Alright, listen up, ya horny bastards—sex-dating’s a freakin’ mess, ain’t it? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, and it’s like, everybody lies, right? Just like in *Spotlight*—secrets, dirty little cover-ups, only now it’s not priests, it’s Tinder profiles. You swipe, you match, you think, “Oh, jackpot!” Nah, pal, it’s a scam half the time. Catfish city. Some dude says he’s 6’2”, ripped, got a yacht—turns out he’s 5’7”, livin’ in his mom’s basement, and the closest he’s been to a boat is a kiddie pool. “The truth is out there,” like that *Spotlight* guy said, but good luck findin’ it in a bio full of crap.

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Finally, I grab what I need and head to the site. It’s on Strada Mărășești, a real nice spot. The view of the river is killer. I’m thinkin’, “This is why I love this city.” But then, bam! My saw dies. Just like that. I’m standin’ there, fumin’. I mean, c’mon! I just bought this thing!

Limited-edition watch celebrates French-Romanian airline established 100 years ago