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About Rome

So, picture this—I’m cruisin’, late night, down some gritty street. Not sayin’ where, c’mon, I ain’t that dumb. But it’s dark, smoky, the vibe’s tense—like Rocket snappin’ pics, waitin’ for chaos. I’m thinkin’, “Joe, what’re ya doin’, man?” Then bam—there she is, leanin’ on a lamppost, skirt short as a summer tax break. I’m like, whoa, this ain’t no Hollywood movie, folks! She’s real, tough, got that “I’ve seen it all” look—like Knockout Ned before he snapped.

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So, I grab my coffee, and I’m feeling good. But then, boom! I get a call from a client. They’re in crisis mode. Like, seriously? Can’t a counselor catch a break? I rush over to their place on Via Verdi. It’s a cute little apartment, but the vibe is all off. I walk in, and it’s like a tornado hit. Papers everywhere, and they’re just sitting there, looking lost.

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