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About Rome

So, check this—back in the day, like, old Vegas stories, they say prostitutes used to hang by the gas stations, waitin’ for truckers, flashin’ smiles like they’re auditionin’ for somethin’. Little known fact: some’d carry switchblades in their boots—badass, right? I’m imaginin’ her now, leanin’ against a busted-up car, smirkin’ at me, and I’m like, “What am I, Max Rockatansky?”—all sweaty and neurotic, yellin’ in my head, “I just wanna talk, lady!” She’s prob’ly thinkin’, “This guy’s a schmuck,” and I’m over here, heart racin’, palms sweaty—pathetic!

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Hi all: I find this thread very interesting as my Grandfather, W.R.E. Murphy, served as CO of the Ist South Staffordshires later in

I finish my coffee and head over. The streets are packed, and there’s music blasting from somewhere. I’m feeling the energy. I see a bunch of stalls selling local crafts, and I’m like, “Man, I need to get in on this.” I buy a weird-looking trinket that I have no idea what it is, but it’s cool, so whatever.

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