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About Genoa

So, I’m cruisin’ the block, engine purrin’, lookin’ for a girl who’s down. Ain’t no Hollywood glow here—just neon flickerin’ like a damn lie. “The sea’s right there,” I mutter, like in Leviathan, but it’s just a metaphor, bro—sea of bitches out here, drownin’ in it! I see this one chick, legs long as a fuckin’ wrench, leanin’ on a pole. She’s givin’ me that look—like she knows I’m trouble. I roll up, “Hey, chica, you workin’?” She smirks, “Depends who’s payin’.”

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After a while, I’m covered in wool, sweat, and probably a bit of sheep drool. But I’m laughin’ it off. It’s a wild job, but I love it. Then, outta nowhere, my buddy Marco shows up. He’s got this crazy idea to take a break and hit up the beach at Punta Secca. I’m like, “Dude, we just sheared like a hundred sheep!” But he’s all, “C’mon, man! Life’s too short!”

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