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About Bologna

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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After that, I decide to hit the beach. You know, relax a bit. I head over to Spiaggia di Bisceglie. The waves are crashing, and I’m feeling good. But then, I see this kid building a sandcastle. And I’m like, “Aww, that’s cute.” But then, his dog runs over and totally wrecks it. I’m talking full-on destruction. The kid starts crying, and I’m like, “Dude, it’s just sand!” But I get it. I mean, I’d be upset too.

In Her Own Words: Jennifer Bisceglie’s Interos found an inflection point during Covid