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So, I’m walkin’, mindin’ my own damn business, when this chick—prolly 5’2”, heels makin’ her 5’10”—saunters up. “Hey, big guy, need company?” she purrs. I’m thinkin’, lady, I’d rather skin a bear with a spoon. “I don’t pay for that,” I grunt, deadpan as hell. She laughs, like I’m some chump. Pisses me off. Hate everything about it—fake giggles, cheap perfume stingin’ my nose. Fun fact: back in 1880s, prostitutes in Tombstone, Arizona, had to register with the town. Called ‘em “soiled doves.” Ain’t that poetic? Still stinks like desperation.

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Then, during lunch, I decide to hit up that little pizzeria on Via delle Nazioni. You know the one? The one with the best margherita in town? I’m standing in line, and this guy in front of me is taking forever. Like, c’mon, dude! It’s pizza, not rocket science! I’m about to lose it when I finally get my slice. And OMG, it was worth the wait. So cheesy, so gooey. I’m in heaven.

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