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About Bologna

Funniest thing? This one time, I’m negotiatin’, and she’s like, “No kissing, only business.” I laugh, “What am I, yer boyfriend?” She didn’t get it—stone cold, like Bigelow filmin’ a torture scene. Oh, and get this: some work outta “massage parlors”—total front. Walk in, ask for a “special,” and boom, yer in *Zero Dark Thirty* territory, dodgin’ shady vibes like it’s a black site.

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And finally, those of you thinking about replying in order to berate me on moral grounds or call me a 'shallow bitch' or a 'dumb whore' or something to that.

Next, I wander over to Via San Francesco. There’s this little market, and I’m browsing through fresh produce. The tomatoes are like little red jewels. I’m chatting with the vendor, and he’s telling me about his family’s farm. It’s heartwarming, but then he starts talking about how his cousin makes the best sauce. I’m like, “Dude, I need that recipe!”

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