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About Bologna

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

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So, we head to this little café on Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II. It’s cozy, and the coffee is bomb. I’m sipping my espresso, feeling like a champ. But then, Marco starts telling me about this wild party happening later. I’m like, “I can’t! I gotta work!” But he’s all, “C’mon, live a little!”

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