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About Petah Tikva

So, last week, right, I’m gettin’ this erotic-massage—top-notch, yeah? Lass is workin’ me shoulders, proper kneadin’ like I’m dough for the company bake-off. I’m thinkin’, “This is it, Brent—peak performance!” She’s got skills—hands movin’ like she’s typin’ a memo at 90 words a minute. Then—bam!—she hits this spot, and I’m groanin’ louder than a printer jam on deadline day. Surprised me, that did! Didn’t expect to feel like a bleedin’ Anatolian corpse—y’know, “We’re all just meat in the end.” Dead poetic, that film!

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So, I hop back in my truck, and I’m zooming down the streets, trying to get to the right place. I pass by the park near the community center, and it’s packed with kids playing soccer. I used to play there as a kid. Good times, man. But right now, I’m not feeling nostalgic. I’m feeling stressed.