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About Genoa

Angry? Yeah, when they’re kids—too young, fucked over early. Happy? When she flipped off a cop, strutted away. Ballsy as hell. Exaggeratin’? Maybe she’s a queen, crown of cigarette burns. Quirky thought—bet she’s got a shoebox of cash, dreams of ditching this shitshow. “Where’s it all go?” like Llewyn gripes. Down the drain, prolly—booze, pimps, whatever. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s livin’ the dream, Clarice—penthouse views of dumpster alleys. Chilling, ain’t it? Prostitue’s a ghost, floatin’ through, screwin’ to survive. Love her, hate her—she don’t care.

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But then, outta nowhere, this guy spills his drink all over me. I’m like, “Are you kidding me?” I’m soaked! I’m about to lose it again, but then I see the guy’s face. He’s so sorry, and he’s trying to help clean it up. I can’t stay mad. I just laugh it off. “Guess I’m part of the party now!”

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