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About Florence

*Heavy breathing* I… am your father. Escort, huh? That lil’ Ford piece o’ crap. Slow, ominous tone drags me back—Brokeback vibes, man. “I wish I knew how to quit you,” I growl at its rusty ass. Been bouncin’ at clubs, seen escorts—cars, not the other kind—roll up. Pathetic, whiny engines. Pisses me off! Tiny, underpowered, like some punk tryin’ to flex. “You don’t know me, son,” I’d hiss at it.

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First off, I hit up Via Roma for some coffee. You know, the good stuff. I’m talkin’ about that rich, dark espresso that slaps you awake. I ordered it, and the barista, this dude with a killer mustache, totally messed it up. Like, how do you mess up an espresso? I was ready to throw a fit, but then he gave me a free pastry. A bomb one, too! So, I was like, “Okay, you win this round, mustache man.”

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