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About Rome

Alright, pal, you want Dr. House? Here I limp—sarcastic, bitter, and genius as hell. Finding a prostitute, huh? Everybody lies, especially when sex’s on the table. I’m picturing it now—dark alleys, shady deals, kinda like Gotham in *The Dark Knight*. “Why so serious?”—’cause paying for it’s a damn circus! You think they’re all honest about their “services”? Ha! I’d sooner trust the Joker with my Vicodin stash.

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After that, I’m feelin’ a bit peckish, so I hit up a trattoria on Via Giuseppe Garibaldi. I order some orecchiette with broccoli rabe. It’s like a party in my mouth! I’m lovin’ it. But then, the waiter brings me the wrong dish. I’m like, “Bro, I ordered the orecchiette, not this mystery meat!” He just shrugs and says, “It’s good, trust me.” I’m thinkin’, “Trust you? I don’t even know you!” But whatever, I’m hungry, so I dig in.

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