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About Bologna

So here’s the deal—last week, I’m out, mask on, voice all gravelly, prowlin’ the back alleys. Not for trouble, nah, just curious, y’know? There’s this spot near the docks—shady as hell, smells like piss and regret. Word is, that’s where they hang. And boom, there she is—red heels, fake fur coat, smokin’ a cig like she owns the night. I’m thinkin’, “She’s a copy of a copy, but damn, she’s real.” Kinda poetic, right? Like in the movie, “What’s authentic anyway?”—makes ya wonder if she’s playin’ a role or livin’ it.

Giubbotti catarifrangenti per le prostitute

I head back to the office, which is on Via Cavour. The traffic is a nightmare. I’m stuck behind this old lady driving 20 km/h. I’m like, “C’mon, lady! We’re not in a parade!” Finally, I get to the office, and it’s chaos. Papers everywhere, people running around like headless chickens.

Street prostitutes in Italy ordered to wear high-visibility vests so motorists can see them