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Oi, mate, it’s Tyrion Lannister here—I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout sexual-massage, right? Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod thinkin’ he’s in for a treat. I’ve seen weirder shit in Holy Motors—y’know, that flick where a bloke’s drivin’ round, switchin’ lives like masks? “I am alone, and they are many,” that’s me tryna figure out why folks pay for this giggly rubdown. Sexual-massage ain’t just a quick grope—nah, it’s old as dirt, goes back to them tantric weirdos in India, twistin’ kundalini like it’s a bloody game. Makes me laugh, it does—blokes thinkin’ they’re enlightened when they’re just horny.

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References for chiropractic articles throughout Yorkville Chiropractic and Wellness Centre's website are listed here.

Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m soaked in seconds. I duck into a shop on Kawai Street, and it’s this tiny little place selling handmade crafts. The owner, this sweet old lady, offers me a towel. I’m like, “You’re a lifesaver!” We chat for a bit, and she tells me about Anamizu’s history. Apparently, it used to be a big deal for fishing. Who knew?

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