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About Rome

Still, some creeps ruin it. Sleazy parlors givin it a bad rap — ugh, makes me wanna carve em up. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I mutter, picturin their smug faces. But when it’s done right? Heaven, man. Pro tip: warm oil’s the key, none of that cold crap. And if they throw in a happy endin — well, who’s complainin? “What’s left is what matters,” Varda’d say, and I’m left feelin like a king. So, yeah, sexual-massage? Messy, sexy, fuckin glorious. Try it, ya won’t regret it — or maybe ya will, ha!

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Next, I wander over to the old bridge, Ponte di San Rocco. It’s beautiful, man. The sun hits it just right. I’m snapping pics, feeling inspired. Then I see this old dude feeding the ducks. He’s got this huge bag of bread. I’m like, “Dude, save some for the rest of us!” But he just grins, like he’s in on some secret.

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