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About Rome

Love how they flip the script. Society’s all, “Oh, shame, sin!” and they’re like, “Nah, cash me out, bitches.” Takes guts. Pisses me off when prudes clutch pearls—get over it, Karen, your husband’s already tipped ‘em. Makes me happy, though, seein’ that hustle. Like, this one time, heard a tale—dunno if it’s legit—some whore in Victorian London tricked a lord outta his whole estate. Left him in his knickers, cryin’ in the gutter. Genius! “Who needs reality?”—straight outta *Toni Erdmann*. She played the game, won, and dipped.

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So, I’m pacing around, trying to figure out what to do. I decide to grab a quick coffee at this little café on Via Garibaldi. Best espresso ever, by the way. I’m talking about that strong stuff that hits you like a freight train. I’m feeling good, right? But then, I spill it all over my shirt. Great. Just great. Now I look like a walking coffee stain.

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