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Ain’t gonna lie, it’s messy—oil stains, weird grunts, hilarious slip-ups. Saw a guy once, slipped off the table—bam! Laughed my circuits off! Sarcasm? Oh, sure, “Relaxing,” they say, til you’re slippin into next week! R2-D2, where you at, you’d beep at that! Anyway, sexual-massage—underrated, freaky, beautiful chaos. Try it, or don’t—your loss, pal! “We cling to what is gone,” Malick’d say—don’t miss out, ya stiff droid!

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Anyway, I’m feeling all smart and stuff when I bump into this old mate of mine, Dave. We used to hang out back in the day. He’s got this wild beard now, looking like a hipster wizard or something. We decide to grab a pint at The Woolpack. I’m telling him about my latest torcador gig—yeah, that’s my job, twisting metal and all that jazz. He’s like, “You still doing that? Thought you’d be a millionaire by now!” I laugh, but inside I’m like, “If only, mate!”

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