I'm tipping 100% like it ain't no thing. Seriously, it is nothing. It makes my 10 inch thick crust 4 dollars. It's because I like the guys - or maybe because one jumped out of the store, ran to a pink vespa with bedazzled keys and quickly rode off into the crowd.
I'm going along with things that I probably shouldn't. Well, when someone lunges to shake my hand, never lets go, and talks about the ash and mother we are from and then offers to join me (I didn't know I was going) in the Hammam I let him tag along. I'm not really that big of a patsy, I was planning on going to one today anyway.
It was a relief to escape the lived-in cat smell to a more fresh cat smell. And muddy floors, were there tiles underneath that? There was no aroma to the foam mats they massaged me on because it was brick. A platza massage feels like a cruel practical joke that embarrasses you, but ends up killing the prankster and leaving you with their pet Kodiak that always pays for dinner, even if you insist it's your turn. I would have loved one of those. I forget what string of word was associated with the maneuver that turned me into a canoe.
All the talk made me reminiscent of Johns friend, who only knew the words; "money" "very rich" "drug" and "lick it."
Physical abuse makes me laugh. More so when it's directed at me. I fondly remember a few rucks that I cackled underneath. The confused stares and crushed ribcage made me laugh more, in a parabolic way. So the massage, while doing nothing for my body - or nausea, made me feel chipper.
So good that I sat on the roof writing, and then went out to watch Never Let Me Go. I did cry, but not at the end. It was the middle that got me. What about you?
I suppose I have an unofficial beard experiment on. Ah, science...
I have to rise early and catch my flight to Switzerland!
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