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So, erotic-massage—wot’s the fuss? It’s all handsy, slippery, proper naughty stuff. Not yer nan’s back rub, nah! Think oils, dim lights, some geezer or lass kneadin’ you into a puddle. *Carpe diem*, seize the day, lads! I reckon it’s like *Spring Breakers*—bit of chaos, bit of thrill. “This is the fuckin’ American dream!”—that’s what they’d yell mid-massage, if it went full Korine. Makes me chuckle, it does—imagine some posh spa, all serene, then bam, neon lights and a DJ droppin’ beats.

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Finally, I plop down at my desk, and I’m staring at my computer. The reports are due in an hour. I’m typing like a madman, fingers flying over the keys. I’m sweating bullets, and I can feel the panic rising. I’m like, “Why did I choose this career?” But then I remember, I love it. I love the numbers, the trends, the chaos of it all.

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