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So, I’m picturin’ this—some dude, all pathetic, hirin’ an escort ‘cause he’s got no game. Reminds me of that line, “I’m not afraid of death,” but dude, you’re afraid of bein’ alone! Escorts swoop in, all sexy and fake-smiley, and I’m like—damn, that’s smart! They’re cashin’ in on losers! Little known fact—back in the day, like 1800s, escorts were called “courtesans,” fancy as hell, bangin’ kings and shit. Now? They’re just a phone call away, no crown needed!

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So, I finally get to the clinic on Via dei Priori, and it’s already chaos. I walk in, and there’s a cat in a carrier, hissing like it’s auditioning for a horror movie. I’m like, “What’s up, Mr. Whiskers?” Turns out, he’s got a UTI. Great. Just what I needed. I’m trying to calm him down, but he’s not having it. I’m sweating bullets, thinking, “Why do I do this again?”

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