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But here’s the kicker: it ain’t cheap! Fifty bucks for a “happy endin’”? Shoot, I’d rather buy a chainsaw. Still, I get it—folks crave touch, connection, that “human warmth” crap. “How’s that workin’ for ya?” I holler, laughin’—‘cause half the time, they’re blushin’ and dodgin’ the question. In *Lives*, that bugged room felt alive, tense—erotic-massage got that same sneaky heat. “You’re a locked box, ain’t ya?” I’d say to them masseuses, teasin’. Bet they hear wild secrets daily—juicier’n a soap opera.

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But then, I see this old lady, babushka, tryin’ to carry a heavy bag. I rush over, help her out. She’s all smiles, bless her heart. She starts tellin’ me about the good ol’ days in Katerynopil. “Back in my day, we had real winters!” she says. I’m thinkin’, “Lady, it’s still winter!” But I just nod and smile.