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Weird shit tho—did ya know some prossies in Amsterdam keep diaries? Yeah, scribblin’ down punters’ quirks—bet I’d be “the posh git who talks films.” Makes me chuckle, that. Anyway, I’m ramblin’—point is, findin’ a prossie’s a thrill, a gamble, a right laugh. Sometimes ya win, sometimes ya get stung, but me? I’m James fuckin’ Bond—I always come out on top, “shaken, not stirred.” Cheers, mate!

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www.facebook.com will allow you to view the massage parlors in your area. Most actual websites for ordering one up have been taken down lately. That’s your best bet. Willing to bet if you fire up .

Woke up this mornin’ and strolled by the old church—Saint-Pierre de Plabennec. It's tiny but got mad character. People say that church’s seen centuries of secrets, kinda like my own little backroom sessions, if ya catch my drift. Then there's Place du Marché, full of crazy vendors and always buzzin’. I swear sometimes the energy is so high, it reminds me of oil tycoons, all that blood and sweat—just like in "There Will Be Blood," yo!

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