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Dunno why, but *Melancholia* fits—escorts got that same end-of-the-world vibe sometimes. All glitter on top, despair underneath. “The earth is evil,” Justine moans, and I’m noddin’—some nights, it bloody is. Ever hear bout the escort who poisoned her john with wine? True story—France, ages ago. Bitch got away, too—respect! Always thinkin’, me, could I pull that off? Probly not, too busy glarin’ at idiots.

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After that, I decide to hit up the local bakery on Via delle Vigne. I’m craving a cornetto. I walk in, and the smell hits me like a freight train. I order one, and the lady behind the counter gives me this huge smile. I mean, who doesn’t love a good pastry? I take a bite, and it’s like heaven exploded in my mouth. I’m in bliss. But then, I see a kid drop his gelato. I’m like, “Oh no, not the gelato!” The poor kid starts crying. I’m torn between laughing and feeling bad.

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