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Alright, so prostitutes—dangerous gig, huh? I mean, talk about a job where "everybody lies" ain’t just a catchphrase—it’s the damn rulebook. You’re out there, dodgin’ creeps, cops, and STDs like it’s some twisted game of whack-a-mole. Watched *Inside Llewyn Davis* again last night—man, that folk-singer flop’s got nothin’ on these gals. Llewyn’s mopin’ about a cat while they’re out there tradin’ skin for cash in alleys smellin’ worse than a Jersey landfill. “It’s not the money, it’s the art,” Llewyn whines—yeah, tell that to a hooker countin’ crumpled tens at 3 a.m.

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Then, I decide to grab a slice at this little pizzeria on Via Cavour. Best pizza ever! I mean, it’s Oleggio, not Rome, but still. I order a margherita, and the guy behind the counter is like, “You want extra cheese?” I’m like, “Duh! Who says no to cheese?”

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