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The worst part? Catfishers, ugh, they boil my blood! This one dude—swore he was 6’2”, ripped, shows up lookin’ like a soggy noodle. I’m like, “You must play,” quotin’ Szpilman’s grit, but inside I’m screamin’, “Liar!” Sex-dating’s a gamble—half the time you’re dodgin’ fakes, half the time you’re prayin’ for a spark. Little tip: check their pics for blurry hands—dead giveaway they’re hidin’ somethin’.

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After that, I decide to grab a coffee at this little café on Via Garibaldi. I order my usual—cappuccino, extra foam, please! But the barista? She’s having a day too. She spills milk everywhere. I’m talking a mini milk tsunami. I’m just trying to sip my coffee, and she’s apologizing like she just committed a crime. I’m like, “Chill, it’s just milk!” But she’s all flustered, and I’m trying not to laugh.

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