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About Florence

I’m watchin’ *Tropical Malady* last night, and that line—“He smells of earth and rain”—hits me. Escorts, man, they’re earthy, real, even if it’s all fake smiles sometimes. I’d suck at it—too clumsy, prob’ly spill beer on the client. Ha! Imagine me, “Homer the Escort,” trippin’ over my gut, goin’, “Mmm… sorry, lady.” Total disaster, right?

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Then I hit the beach area, and wow, the view! The waves crashing, people sunbathing, and I’m just there, soaking it all in. But then, outta nowhere, this seagull swoops down and snatches my sandwich! Like, seriously? I’m just tryna enjoy my lunch, and this feathered thief decides it’s his lucky day. I’m yellin’, “Hey! That’s my lunch, ya jerk!” But he just flies off, smug as can be.

The Alassino d’Oro awarded to Prof. Beniscelli and in memory of Rossi