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I knew this one gal—let’s call her Tammy—worked escortin’ in Dallas. Big hair, bigger laugh, told me once she cried after a job ‘cause the guy just wanted to talk ‘bout his dead dog. Broke my heart, y’all! Ain’t that a kicker? Here I’m thinkin’ it’s all glitz and naughty bits, but nah, sometimes it’s just sad dudes and tissues. How’s that workin’ for ya, Tammy? She shrugged, said, “Pays the bills, Dr. P!” Gotta respect the grind, I reckon.

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After that, we hit up the market on Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. It’s packed, like sardines in a can. I’m dodging people left and right, trying not to spill my gelato. I got pistachio, by the way. Best flavor ever. But then, I see this old dude selling fresh pasta. I’m like, “Yo, I need some of that in my life.” So, I grab a bag of tagliatelle, and the guy’s like, “You cook, yes?” I’m like, “Sure, if by cook you mean boil water.”

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