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Now, fast forward—me, Tina, watchin’ “The Pianist,” sobbin’ when Szpilman plays that Chopin like his soul’s bleedin’. “What is it? What’s the matter?” his sister asks, and I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Life’s a whore, that’s what!” ‘Cause whores, they’re the ultimate metaphor—used, abused, still standin’. I’m typin’ this so fast, prolly fucked up “metaphor” back there—meh, who cares? You get it. They’re scrappy, like Szpilman hidin’ in rubble. Love that grit, makes me happy—tough bitches win.

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Anyway, I keep walkin’, tryin’ to shake off the pigeon drama. I hit up the local market on Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II. Fresh produce everywhere! I’m talkin’ juicy tomatoes, fragrant basil, and the best mozzarella. I grab some, thinkin’ I’ll whip up a killer caprese later. But then, I see this old lady, Nonna Rosa, who’s like the queen of the market. She’s got this huge basket of figs, and I’m like, “Nonna, those look amazing!”

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