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About Bari

So, picture this: I’m haulin’ cargo cross-country, right? Got deadlines tighter than a nun’s—well, ya know. Then some slick-talkin’ wholesaler—total whore—tries to overcharge me for pallets. Says, “Supply chain’s a mess, pal.” Bullshit! I’m like, “Don’t gimme that noise—I disarm bombs for a livin’!” Okay, not bombs, but paperwork that’d blow yer mind. Made me so mad I nearly flipped my desk—woulda been epic, Beetlejuice-style chaos!

Understanding the Madonna-Whore Complex

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First off, I wake up late. Like, super late. My alarm? Totally betrayed me. I jump outta bed, throw on whatever I can find. I’m talkin’ mismatched socks and a shirt that’s probably older than my dog. I rush outta my apartment on Via Roma, and boom! The sun hits me like a slap. I’m squinting like a vampire in daylight.

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