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About Naples

I’m typin’ fast, prolly messin’ up evrywhere—don’t care! Imagine me stompin’ through the woods, all “I’m a forester, dammit!” but secretly wonderin’—could I find one out here? Ha! Probs not—too many trees, not enough sequins. Still, I’d be all, “El tango de Roxanne!”—dancin’ with a pine, mad as hell at the world.

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Finally, I spot a little bakery on Via San Giovanni. Thank the heavens! I grab a pastry, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. I’m talking flaky, buttery goodness. I’m feeling good again. But then, I step outside, and it starts pouring! Like, outta nowhere! I’m soaked in seconds. I’m standing there, drenched, thinking, “Really, Frattaminore? You’re gonna do me like this?”

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