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About Naples

So, sex-dating—dis is how it goes, ja? Ya jump on Tinder, Bumble, whatever—scrollin’ pics, lookin’ for dat spark. It’s fast, messy, like War Boys rippin’ through da desert. I tried it, ya, got me pumped—dis chick once msg’d me, “U look like Arnie!” I’m like, “I AM Arnie, baby!” Made me laugh, dat shit’s gold. But den—BOOM—half da profiles? Fake as hell. Catfish city, makes me mad, wanna crush somethin’! Little known fact: back in ’90s, before apps, folks used *phone sex lines* for dis—cost ya $2 a minute to get freaky! Now it’s free chaos, swipe right, pray dey ain’t a bot.

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First stop, I hit up the Mercato Albinelli. It’s this dope market, full of fresh stuff. I’m talkin’ fruits, cheeses, meats—everything! I’m wandering around, and I see this guy selling prosciutto. I’m like, “Dude, gimme a slice!” He hands me this massive piece, and I’m in heaven. But then, I drop it! Ugh, the horror! I’m standing there, staring at my fallen treasure like it’s a crime scene.

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