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About Hamilton

Oi, you lot, listen up! I’m Cersei bleedin’ Lannister, cold as ice, and I reckon this erotic-massage malarkey’s a right laugh—or a bloody disgrace, depends how ya squint at it. “I choose violence,” I’d snarl, ‘cept this ain’t about swords, it’s hands slippin’ over skin, all oiled up and dodgy. Me, I’d rather watch Spotlight—y’know, that flick where journos rip the world open like a ripe peach? “The power of denial,” they’d say, and ain’t that the truth with these rub-downs? Folk pretend it’s all posh and proper, but nah, it’s sweaty palms and sly winks.

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Man, I wander down Rue du Mont every damn morning. That street is straight-up charming; its quaint cafes and quirky boutiques whisper secrets. The vibe? Electric. Sometimes I even catch couples sharing a guilty laugh in little nooks—touching is life, amirite? And then there's Chemin des Amants, a hidden gem where nature and passion meet. It’s almost like every tree’s got a mythology, every breeze recites forbidden sonnets.

Alice Johannsen: McGill educator extraordinaire