Luna Cornuda Whore ❤️❤️

About Florence

But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, regret—makes me gag thinkin’ about it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Picture this: a whore leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, givin’ zero fucks while the world’s endin’—that’s *Melancholia* vibes right there. “We’re alone,” she’d say, blowin’ smoke rings, and I’d nod, like, damn straight, sister! Great Scott, they’re survivors—screwed over, sure, but still kickin’. You ever think ‘bout that? Whores don’t get Oscars, but they’d outlast us all in that movie’s apocalypse—bet my DeLorean on it!

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m sprinting down the street, trying to find shelter. I duck into this little café on Via Garibaldi. It’s cozy, and the smell of pastries is heavenly. I order a slice of tiramisu, and let me tell you, it was the best decision ever. I’m sitting there, watching the rain, feeling all philosophical. Like, life is weird, man. One minute you’re mad about gelato on your shoes, and the next you’re eating tiramisu and contemplating existence.

The Daily Heller: Ciao, Tipografia Italiana