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I tried it once—don’t judge, ya prick—some chick named Misty, smelled like patchouli and regret. Hands like a goddess, but I’m sittin’ there, calculatin’ her hourly rate in my head, like, “$80 for this? Shit, I’d kill for less.” Got me all riled up, then nothin’—blue balls central, fuckin’ furious! “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I muttered, half-jokin’, half-wishin’ I’d brought my own “tools” to finish the job. Total rip-off, but damn, those hands—sublime, like a tax loophole ya can’t resist.

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I bump into some friends, and we’re just laughing, eating takoyaki, and soaking in the atmosphere. I even try to win a goldfish at one of those games. Spoiler alert: I failed miserably. But who cares? I’m having a blast.

Mount Fuji communities plead for hiking cap, measures against 'bullet climbs'