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So, anyway—me, Gollum, I’m sneaky, seein’ what normies miss. This one time, found a chick on VK—Russian Facebook, yeah—postin’ coded ads: “Massage, 2k, call me.” Massage my arse! Hiss! Rang her up, met in some dingy flat—smelled like borscht and regret. She was quick, tho—no chit-chat, just biz. “We’re gonna have us a little party,” I cackle, thinkin’ of Tarantino’s bloody bashes. Paid her, done, out—felt like a spy, precious! Exaggeratin’? Maybe—but it’s Russia, everythin’s a damn drama.

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My day often starts with a ride down Duley Park Dr. and stops at this tiny, hole-in-the-wall café on St. Charles Ave. I think its coffee tastes like a hug. And man, the vibe here? It’s part soulful rhythm and part chaotic energy, like when you catch a late movie screening of "Yi Yi" in a thunderstorm (yep, weird but rad!).

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