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About Milan

We haggle, ‘cause I’m a stingy git—fifteen quid, final offer. She rolls her eyes, mutters “cheap bastard,” but off we go, her heels clackin’ like a typewriter. Me mind’s racin’—what if the coppers nab us? Or worse, me mum finds out? Angry as a hornet I am, at meself fer bein’ such a numpty, yet happy too—freedom, thou art a tart in fishnets!

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If having sex is a right, aside from playing the incel and red-pilled game, then what are we waiting for to legalize prostitution so that.

Finally, the rain stops, and I’m like, “Okay, let’s salvage this day.” I head to the Basilica di San Valentino. It’s beautiful, man. I’m standing there, taking it all in, and I feel this wave of calm wash over me. But then, I hear this loud group of tourists behind me. They’re taking selfies, yelling, and I’m like, “Can’t a guy have a moment of peace?”

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