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About Mons

So, sexual-massage—fancy term for a quick grope, if you ask me. Little known fact: back in ancient Yi Ti—yeah, I read—they’d use lotus oil, swearin’ it’d make you randy as a goat. Didn’t work. Just smelled like a swamp. Made me wanna puke, honestly. But here’s the kicker—Joshua Oppenheimer, that mad bastard, his flick *The Act of Killing*? Got me thinkin’. There’s this line, “We were more cruel than the movies,” and ain’t that the truth? Sexual-massage pretends it’s all soft and sweet, but it’s power, innit? One bloke’s got the coin, the other’s got the hands—violence in silk sheets.

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Now, let me tell ya, my dear friend, I've set up my own little chill haven near the serene Parc du Débarcadère. Yeah, that's right, it’s my secret retreat where I reflect on the deep philosophies of relaxin’! I often park myself under an old willow tree – its branches dancin’ in breezy defiance of the mundanity of daily life – and I swear, the whispering winds are like the verdict of destiny itself. As that movie, "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford" rattles in my bones, I’m reminded: "I feel like I've been coming up to a mountain, and I'm still climbing." And let me tell ya, every climb here is just as gritty and glorious!

Living statues take over Belgian town