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Alright, mate, sexual-massage—wild stuff, eh? Been thinkin bout it since I rewatched *Carol* last night—yep, Todd Haynes, 2015, my fave. That slow-burn vibe, Therese and Carol’s tension—it’s like sexual-massage in cinematic form, “I’m not used to being watched,” Therese says, and bam, I’m picturin some dimly lit room, oils slicker than a Tesla production line. Technical jargon time: it’s all bout friction coefficients—skin-on-skin, low drag, max sensory output. Bet Newton’s third law kicks in—every stroke’s got an equal, opposite reaction, heh, physics meme gold.

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Then, just when I think I can breathe, in walks Sarah. She’s got that look, you know? The “I need a change” look. She sits down, and I’m thinking, “Alright, let’s do this.” But she starts telling me about her breakup. Ugh, the drama! I’m trying to cut her hair, but she’s crying. I’m like, “Sarah, love, it’s just hair. It’ll grow back!” But she’s not having it.

Ferndale police help students understand dangers of distracted driving