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About Bologna

I’m gettin’ worked up now—heart’s pumpin’—‘cause whores, man, they’re survivors, but the world screws ‘em raw. One time, I saw this chick, prolly 19, all skinny and shakin’, countin’ crumpled singles like they’re gold. Broke my damn heart. “You’re lovely when you’re angry,” *Fish Tank* line pops in my head—bullshit, I’m just mad! She shouldn’t be there, y’know? Billionaires sittin’ on yachts, and she’s dodgin’ creeps? Screw that noise! I wanna shake her, tell her, “You’re worth more, kid!”—but nah, she’d just laugh, call me a crazy old coot.

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But then, the day takes a turn. I’m walking back, feeling all good, when I see a sign for a local festival. I’m like, “Heck yeah!” I rush over, and it’s a food fest. I’m in heaven! But then, I realize I left my wallet at the café. Ugh! I’m running back, dodging people like I’m in a video game.

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