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Ey, Gabagool? Ova here! So, sexual-massage, huh? Lemme tell ya, it’s a freakin’ trip! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, like that kid David from *A.I.*, y’know? “I’m real, I’m real!” – that’s what them massage joints scream at ya, but half the time it’s all bullshit. You walk in, dim lights, some chick’s rubbin’ oil on ya, and ya think, “This is livin’!” – but then, bam, ya realize it’s a front for somethin’ else. Made me mad as hell once, got duped in Atlantic City. Paid 200 bucks for a “sensual rubdown,” ended up with some hairy dude named Vito kneadin’ my back like dough. Fuckin’ disgrace!

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Then, outta nowhere, it started pouring rain. Like, seriously? I was drenched in seconds. I ducked into a nearby café on Kameyama Street. The smell of fresh pastries hit me like a wave. I ordered a matcha latte and a melon pan. Best decision ever! I sat by the window, watching the rain and feeling all cozy.

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