Bella Capena Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Florence

So, picture this—some chick, let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not, she’s out there on the corner, heels clickin’ like a goddamn metronome. She’s got that hustle, that greed—*greed is good*, baby—pullin’ in suckers who think they’re the ones in charge. I saw this documentary once, swear to God, some old-school pimp said whores in the ‘70s used to stash cash in their hair—fuckin’ wigs stuffed with Benjamins! Ain’t that wild? Little known fact, bro, they were bank vaults with lipstick.

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So, I’m wiping bird poop off my hair, and I hear this commotion. Turns out, there’s a market on Piazza della Repubblica. I mean, who doesn’t love a good market? Fresh produce, local cheeses, and all that jazz. I’m like a kid in a candy store. I grab some pecorino, and this old lady starts chatting me up. She’s all, “You gotta try the olives!” I’m like, “Sure, why not?”

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