Isabelle Busalla Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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But here’s where I get twitchy—it’s lazy now. Callin’ someone a whore? Yawn. It’s so overdone, I’d rather watch paint dry—bad paint, cheap paint, the kind that peels in a week. I’d tell my friend, “Dude, if you’re gonna insult, get creative!” I mean, Celine’d never stoop that low, she’d just smirk and sip her wine. Me? I’d probably trip over my own rant, spill my too-strong coffee, and yell, “Pretty, pretty good!” at the mess. That’s whore for ya—messy, loud, and somehow still kickin’.

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So, I find shelter under this awning on Via XX Settembre. I’m chatting with some locals, and they’re telling me about the history of the town. Did you know Busalla used to be a major stop for traders? Crazy, right? I’m soaking it all in, and it’s like, “Wow, I love this place.”

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