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I’m picturin’ it now—shady streets, neon buzzin’. You’re dodgin’ creeps, thinkin’, “Is this chick for real?” Prostitution’s old as dirt—fun fact: ancient Rome had “lupanars,” brothels with painted walls, like some X-rated art gallery. Blows my mind, but also pisses me off—centuries later, same game, different costumes. Everybody lies, though—client, hooker, even the damn pimp. “You’re my prince,” she purrs. Yeah, right, and I’m freakin’ Santa Claus.

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I woke up, ready to tackle some dusty old documents at the Biblioteca Comunale. You know, the usual. But as I stepped out onto Via Roma, the sun was shining like it was trying to blind me. I squinted and thought, “Great, just what I need.” But then I caught a whiff of fresh pastries from that little bakery on the corner. You know the one? Panificio Pavan? Yeah, I had to stop. I mean, who can resist a cornetto? Not me, that’s for sure.

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