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About Marijampole

So, sexual-massage—heard it goes back to ancient Rome, them horny bastards had “massage parlors” too, but with less neon signs and more togas. Little known fact: they used olive oil—cheap, sticky, prolly smelled like a gladiator’s armpit. Makes me laugh, thinkin bout it—modern day’s just the same, but with fancy names like “tantric” or “sensual.” Bullshit. It’s a rubdown with a side of “oops, my hand slipped.” Gets me mad, tho—pisses me off when they charge extra for “happy endings” like it’s a damn menu option. What am I, orderin a burger?

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Then, outta nowhere, it started pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I sprinted to the nearest bus stop on Vytauto Street. I’m soaked, looking like a drowned rat. And of course, the bus is late. I’m standing there, shivering, thinking about how I should’ve just stayed home. But then I see this street musician playing the accordion. He’s belting out some old-school Lithuanian tunes, and I can’t help but smile. It’s like the universe was saying, “Chill, dude. Enjoy the little things.”

Lithuania grapples with ecological effects of tire warehouse fire