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About Rome

Alright, so here’s the deal—finding a prostitute? Psh, it’s like tryna catch smoke sometimes, ya know? I’m sittin’ here, Tina Fey style, sippin’ my coffee, thinkin’, “I can see Russia from my house!”—and lemme tell ya, even Putin’s got nothin’ on the sly moves you need for this gig. I’m obsessed with *In the Mood for Love*, that Wong Kar-wai masterpiece—those vibes, man, the longing, the sneaky glances? That’s the mood I’m picturin’ when I think about this. Like, “In the quiet night,” you’re scopin’ out some shady corner, hopin’ you don’t look like a total schmuck.

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The water is murky and dirty. The people harrass you and tried to get my husband prostitutes in front of me. The ruins are a joke and we were ripped off.

Then, outta nowhere, this pigeon decides to play chicken with us. I’m yellin’, “Marco, brake!” But he swerves instead. We miss the pigeon, but hit a pothole. I’m bouncing around like a bobblehead. “Dude, you just scared the life outta me!” He laughs, thinks it’s hilarious. I’m like, “Yeah, well, I’m not ready to meet my maker today!”

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