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Oh, and get this—there’s rules! No funny business, they say. It’s “professional”—ha! I’m laughin’! Professional ticklin’ with oils? Sure, Jan! But it’s true—boundaries, consent, all that jazz. Makes me happy, actually. Respect’s hot. Still, I’m picturin’ some schmuck ruinin’ it, askin’ for extra, and I’m yellin’, “Don’t be THAT guy!” Ruins the vibe, y’know?

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So, I grab my coffee—sans foam—and head out. I’m walking down HaRishonim Street, and it’s packed. I mean, like, sardines in a can packed. Everyone’s hustling, and I’m just trying to dodge people like it’s a game of Frogger. Suddenly, I hear this loud honking. I look over, and it’s this guy in a beat-up old car, yelling at a pigeon. A pigeon! Like, bro, chill. It’s just a bird. But nah, he’s going off, and I’m just standing there, laughing my ass off.

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