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About Waterford

So, mate, imagine this—drove tractor all day, back’s killin’ me, right? Found this dodgy parlor, neon sign buzzin’. “Massage,” it says, but wink-wink, more! Walked in, sweaty, stinkin’ of diesel—lady didn’t care! She’s all “lie down, big boy,” and I’m like, yesss, precious, treat me nice! Hands slidin’, oil drippin’, and I’m thinkin’—“Life is a play, isn’t it?” Like in *Synecdoche, New York*, y’know? “Everyone’s a lead in their own story”—and this, this is my twisted act, ha!

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I woke up in my tiny flat on Church Street, thinking it’d be just another boring day. But nah, Balbriggan had other plans. First off, I step outside, and it’s like the weather can’t decide. One minute it’s sunny, the next it’s pouring. Typical Irish, am I right?

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