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About Rome

Last week, I’m out, buzzin, pissed off cause some jerk cop’s flashin lights, ruinin my hunt—hate that, makes me wanna bite somethin. Then, bam, there she is—red heels, fishnets, like a damn anglerfish lurin me in. “How much?” I ask, all smooth, voice like silk over a blade. She smirks, “More than you got, fancy pants.” Cheeky! Love that, got me laughin—happy as a shark in blood. “I’m not a child,” she snaps, straight outta “Ten,” that sass, that fire—surprised me, gotta say, didn’t expect a street gal to hit me with philosophy.

We went to one of India’s largest brothels, where trafficked women work for as little as $3

But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my friend, and she’s freaking out. She lost her wallet at the market! I was like, “Girl, calm down! We’ll find it.” So, we raced back to Piazza Garibaldi. I was running like I was in a marathon.

DR Congo: Cursed by its natural wealth