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Funny bit—mate of mine got one, slipped off the table, buck-naked, crashed into a lamp. Laughed my ass off picturin it. Me? I stayed put, but damn, nearly proposed to her hands. Sarcasm aside, it’s bloody brilliant—tension’s gone, feelin like a king. Exaggeratin? Maybe. But when she whispered, “Relax, cowboy,” I was done for—pure Brokeback magic. “Tonight’s the night,” I reckon, monotone as ever, but inside? Fuckin fireworks. Try it, ya won’t regret it—unless ya fall, then ya might.

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After a while, I’m like, “I gotta bounce.” I head over to the National Museum of History. I’m curious, ya know? I walk in, and it’s all dusty and old. I’m sniffin’ around, and I catch a whiff of something weird. Like, what is that? Musty books or something? I’m tryin’ to focus on the exhibits, but my nose is goin’ wild.

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