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About Paris

Humor? Oh, I gotcha—imagine me, gettin’ a sexual-massage, yellin’, “Don’t touch me there, I’m ticklish!” while the masseuse is all, “Sir, that’s my elbow.” Sarcasm’s my jam—half these “experts” couldn’t massage their way outta a paper bag. Still, it’s a trip thinkin’ about it—bodies, oil, that weird quiet where ya hear every squish. Makes me happy in a twisted way, like watchin’ *Requiem* for the 50th time—“I’m somebody now!”—but really, I’m just a merchandiser dreamin’ of a good rubdown. So, ya try it, tell me—worth it or a total rip?

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So, I’m sitting there, trying to catch my breath, when I see this street performer. He’s juggling flaming torches. I’m thinking, “This guy’s either a genius or a total idiot.” But he’s got a crowd, and they’re loving it. I’m laughing, clapping, and then—BOOM! One torch goes flying! It lands right next to me. I’m like, “Okay, that’s it. I’m out!”

Sick Architecture - Meredith TenHoor - Care Beyond Biopolitics