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About Genoa

Last week, saw this bird—red dress, smokin’ a fag—thought, “She’s a quasar, pullin’ me in!” Asked her rate, she smirked—£50, quick job. Bargained like a nutter, got it to £40—felt like I cracked gravity! But then—anger hit—bloke nearby yelled at her, “You’re filth!” Made me mad, mate—who’s he to judge? “They’re all hypocrites,” like Grace said, hidin’ their own dirt. Hypocrisy’s denser than a neutron star, swear it.

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Oh, and my fave secret spot? A tiny bar on Via Bruzzoli. It’s nearly invisible unless you’re in the inner circle. Seriously, you’d think it’s a mirage. I once had the best chat there about life with a cat-lovin’ bartender. Crazy stuff! I mean, life here is like a constant loop from Sofia Coppola’s plots, with every bizarre moment just drifting by like, “Who the heck even cares?” And yet... oh man, it’s beautiful.

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