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So, I’m layin’ there once, right? Dimepiece masseuse, hands like a wizard. I’m happy as hell—muscles meltin’, stress gone. Then she flips me over, and I’m like, “Oh, snap!” Gets real sensual, real quick. “The image speaks,” Godard vibes hittin’ me. Ain’t no script—just feelin’ it. But yo, some spots? Sketchy as fuck. Had this one joint—dude walks in, offers “extras.” I’m like, “Bruh, I’m good!” Pissed me off—keep it classy, ya know?

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So, I finally get my coffee, and I’m feeling pumped. I stroll down Corso Vittorio Emanuele. The sun’s shining, people are out, and I’m vibing. Then, BAM! A pigeon poops on my shoulder. Like, seriously?! I’m standing there, looking like a mess. I’m laughing, but also kinda mad. I mean, come on, Torre-Santa-Susanna! Can’t a guy catch a break?

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