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Anyway, she’s kneadin’ my back, slidin’ lower, and I’m like, “Hey, hey, boundaries, lady!” But also, “Don’t stop!” Neurotic rant time: I’m sweatin’, overthinkin’—is this legal? Am I a perv now? What if Cheryl finds out? Oh, wait, we’re divorced—screw it! Felt like Betty in “Mulholland Drive,” all innocent, then—pow!—dark and twisted. “I’m in love with this girl!”—me, yellin’ that in my head about the masseuse. Ridiculous!

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Now, the Centro is a charming chaos. Praça da Liberdade is my go-to chill spot. I often sit there, drinkin’ a cold beer, watching life pass by. It's as if time itself whispers “Sì, la vita è bella!” and suddenly, every minute is epic. Honestly, sometimes I get a tad emotional. Literally mad when the flowers droop, but happy when the fountain sings like in a Crouching Tiger moment – mysterious, poetic.

Peripheral Fascism—theory and practice