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About Bologna

Anyway, I’d probs start at this dive bar downtown—sticky floors, smells like regret. Perfect spot to find a prostitute. I’d be chill, sip a beer, scope the scene. Maybe some chick in fishnets winks at me, and I’m like, “Well, hello, darlin’!” Kinda thrilled, kinda freaked—heart’s racin’, palms sweaty. What if she’s a cop? Shit, that’d piss me off—bust my buzz real quick. Or worse, what if she’s got a pimp watchin’ me like I’m dessert? *“A lobby boy can’t be seen to falter!”*—I’d tell myself, keepin’ cool.

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After that, I’m feeling a bit better. I stroll down to the harbor. The sea is so blue, it’s like a postcard. I sit on a bench, just soaking it all in. Then, outta nowhere, this seagull swoops down and steals my sandwich! I’m like, “Dude, that’s my lunch!” But the bird just looks at me like, “Sorry, not sorry.” I laugh it off.

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