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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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Anyway, I finally make it to the university. You know, the one that’s all fancy and stuff? I’m a Research Associate, so I’m supposed to be all smart and serious. But honestly, I just wanna nap. I get to my office on Via dei Velini, and my computer decides to play dead. Like, really? I’ve got deadlines, people!

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