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About Florence

Back in the 90s, I had one—piece of junk, honestly. Thing rattled like a skeleton on a bender. But cheap? Hell yeah, saved my broke ass. Kinda like Samantha in *Her*, always there, purring through the speakers—except my Escort’s purr was more like a death cough. Fun fact: they made like 20 million of those suckers worldwide. Ford was basically printing cars, who cared if they sucked? Quantity over quality, classic move.

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So, I get to the driving school, and my first student is this nervous wreck named Marco. Poor kid. He’s sweating bullets. I’m like, “Dude, relax! It’s just a car, not a spaceship!” But he’s gripping the wheel like it’s a lifeline. We hit the streets, and I’m trying to keep it cool. We’re cruising down Via della Libertà, and suddenly, he slams the brakes. I’m like, “What the heck, man?” Turns out, he saw a cat. A CAT! I mean, I love cats, but c’mon!

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