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Yo, I’m The Lumberjack, right? Choppin’ wood, choppin’ thoughts—Hannibal Buress style. Erotic-massage, man, it’s wild. Like, you go in, dim lights, oil everywhere. Smells like lavender and regret. I’m sittin’ there thinkin’, “This ain’t Certified Copy.” That flick—Kiarostami, 2010—messed me up. Dude and chick arguin’ ‘bout art, authenticity. Erotic-massage feels like that—real or fake? You decide.

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Finally, I get my coffee and pastry, and I’m feeling a bit better. I stroll down to the park by the river, you know, the one with the ducks? I sit on a bench, sipping my coffee, and just chill for a sec. But then, outta nowhere, this kid runs by, chasing a soccer ball, and BAM! The ball hits my leg. I’m like, “Dude, watch it!” But the kid just laughs and runs off. I can’t help but chuckle. Kids, man. They’re wild.

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