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About Turin

So, I stumble into this grimy port town—thinkin’, “This is my shot, baby!” Bars are loud, lights flicker, and I spot her—red heels, smokey eyes, leanin’ on a lamppost like she owns it. My heart’s racin’, “Is this it? Am I *in*?” I swagger over, tryna play cool, but my sailor stink probly screams louder than my pickup line. “Hey, sugar, wanna make my night less ‘sea’-sick?” She smirks—oh, that smirk!—and I’m hooked. “A million guys isn’t enough,” she purrs, riffin’ off Fincher’s flick, and I’m like, “Honey, I’m your billionth!”

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So, I’m rollin’ outta bed, right? The sun’s barely up, and I’m already feelin’ the heat. Not from the stoves, but from my neighbor, old Mr. Rossi. He’s out there yellin’ at his cat. Like, dude, it’s a cat! Chill! Anyway, I grab my tools and head out to Via Garibaldi.

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