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About Florence

I dove into this sex-dating malarkey, apps buzzin’ like bees. Tinder, Bumble—fie, the choices! Found this lass, curves like a fresh-baked bun, and we chat. She’s all “wyd,” I’m like “bakin’, thou?” Next thing, we’re meetin’ at some dodgy pub. Heart’s poundin’—will she ghost? She don’t! Happy as a pig in mud, I was. But then, mate, she starts yappin’ ‘bout her ex mid-date—anger boilin’ like overproofed dough! “Fuck it, we’re done,” I nearly holler, but I chill. “The city’s a cage,” Monty’d say—aye, datin’s the bars.

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Then, outta nowhere, I see this old lady, Nonna Rosa, trying to cross the street. She’s like a legend around here. Everyone knows her. I rush over to help her, and she’s like, “Grazie, giovane!” I felt like a hero for a sec. But then, she starts telling me about her cat, Gigi, and how he’s been acting weird. I’m standing there, nodding, but inside I’m like, “Lady, I gotta get to work!” But hey, you can’t rush a legend, right?