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About Bologna

I’m thinking—*“How do you live with this memory?”* Straight outta Campanella’s flick. She’s real, tho. Texts me: “u into fertalizer?” Fertilizer, she means. Typo queen. I laugh—happy as a pig in mud. We chat. She’s growing weed! Illegal, sure. But damn, her pH levels? Perfect. I’m impressed. She’s all—“soil’s my pimp, ha!” Humor’s dark. I like it.

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So, I’m like, “Sure, why not?” I stroll over, and on the way, I pass this cute little bakery. The smell of fresh pastries is like a siren call. I can’t resist! I grab a cornetto, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, I spill coffee all over my shirt. Classic me, right? I’m standing there, looking like a mess, and I just laugh.

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