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About Bologna

But here’s the kicker—I’m pissed, y’all! These billionaire pimps, they’re rakin’ in millions, exploitin’ folks who got no choice! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Redistribute that wealth, ya greedy bastards!” Meanwhile, I spot her—red heels, sharp eyes, leanin’ on a wall like she owns it. I’m thinkin’, “She’s got that Nie Yinniang grace—quiet but deadly.” I stumble over, all awkward—texture artist, not a smooth talker, ha! She’s like, “You got cash, old man?” I laugh—‘cause I’m broke, fightin’ the system, ya know?

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So, I’m wiping bird poop off my hair, and I hear this commotion. Turns out, there’s a market on Piazza della Repubblica. I mean, who doesn’t love a good market? Fresh produce, local cheeses, and all that jazz. I’m like a kid in a candy store. I grab some pecorino, and this old lady starts chatting me up. She’s all, “You gotta try the olives!” I’m like, “Sure, why not?”

Ronnie Polaneczky: A story to inspire awe