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About Florence

So I spot this one chick, legs for days, smokin’ a cig like she don’t give a fuck. I roll up, all cool, but inside I’m sweatin’—what if she’s a cop? What if she robs me? Paranoid as hell, motherfucker! I say, “Hey, what’s good?” She’s all, “Fifty for a quickie.” Fifty?! Man, I got pissed—last week it was forty! Told her, “You’re fuckin’ dreamin’!” She just shrugged, like Mia’s “I don’t care” attitude. That shit made me happy tho—girl’s got guts.

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So, I woke up late. Classic me, right? I was supposed to meet a client at C.so Garibaldi. But nope, I rolled outta bed at 9:30. My hair looked like a bird’s nest. Ugh. I threw on some clothes, grabbed a coffee from that cute little café on Via Vittorio Emanuele II. You know the one? The barista always gives me extra foam. Bless him.

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