Anna Rozzano Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

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So, I’m picturin’ it—me, cashin’ out some perv buyin’ condoms at 2 a.m., and I’m like, “Mate, you’re off to find a prostitute, ain’t ya?” He’d probly blush, but I’d just grin. Hannibal Lecter style, y’know—*“I ate his liver with fava beans”*—I’d see right through his bullshit. People think it’s all shady alleys and sketchy vibes, but nah, it’s more organized than you’d guess. Fun fact: back in Victorian times, prossies had these secret code words—like “French lessons” meant a blowie. Sneaky, right? Bet Gustave woulda loved that.

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Finally, I decide to head home. I’m walking down Via della Repubblica, and I see this guy selling gelato. I mean, it’s like a beacon of hope in my soggy day. I get a scoop of pistachio, and it’s heavenly. I’m feeling a bit better, ya know? But then, I drop it. Right on the pavement. I’m standing there, staring at my fallen gelato like it’s a lost friend.

Frances C. Rozzano, Warren, Ohio