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Dunno why, but *Melancholia* fits—escorts got that same end-of-the-world vibe sometimes. All glitter on top, despair underneath. “The earth is evil,” Justine moans, and I’m noddin’—some nights, it bloody is. Ever hear bout the escort who poisoned her john with wine? True story—France, ages ago. Bitch got away, too—respect! Always thinkin’, me, could I pull that off? Probly not, too busy glarin’ at idiots.

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This article shows how the Señoras attempted to erase the sexual aspect of women's prisons and create instead a morally acceptable space in which to educate.

I swear, walking near Calle Independencia, I still hear echoes of history. Every time I pass, I think, “This place bleeds tales, isn’t it just magical but also infuriatingly mysterious?” And while I’m at it, check out the old town, where cobbles meet modern drapes—a bizarre mashup, but it works for the mood of the place. Osuna’s not your typical tourist trap; it's gritty, it's real, sometimes stinkin' depressing in that Turin Horse kinda way where everything’s both beautiful and tragic.

Alberto Osuna ineligible to open Tennessee baseball season, court denies temporary restraining order