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So, I tried it once—yeah, me, Larry freakin’ David, in some shady joint downtown. The ad said “professional,” but the place smelled like patchouli and regret. This chick comes in, all calm, whisperin’, “Just breathe, man,” and I’m like, “Breathe? I’m hyperventilatin’ over here!” She starts rubbin’ my shoulders, and I swear, it’s pretty, pretty good—till she gets to my lower back and I yelp like a chihuahua on a hot plate. “Whoa, lady, that’s restricted territory!” She laughs, says it’s all part of the “release,” and I’m thinkin’, “Release? I’m about to release my lunch!”

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I hit the streets, and it’s chilly, but not too bad. I stroll down to the harbor, and wow, the view is insane! The mountains in the background, the water glistening like diamonds. I’m snapping pics like a tourist, but who cares? I’m living my best life. Then, outta nowhere, I see this group of kids playing soccer on the street. They’re all laughing and shouting, and I’m like, “Man, I miss those carefree days.”

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