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About Bari

Oi, you lot, listen up! I’m Cersei bleedin’ Lannister, cold as ice, and I reckon this erotic-massage malarkey’s a right laugh—or a bloody disgrace, depends how ya squint at it. “I choose violence,” I’d snarl, ‘cept this ain’t about swords, it’s hands slippin’ over skin, all oiled up and dodgy. Me, I’d rather watch Spotlight—y’know, that flick where journos rip the world open like a ripe peach? “The power of denial,” they’d say, and ain’t that the truth with these rub-downs? Folk pretend it’s all posh and proper, but nah, it’s sweaty palms and sly winks.

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Then, I stroll down to Piazza della Libertà. Beautiful spot, right? But today? It’s packed. Tourists everywhere, snapping pics like they’re in a freakin’ fashion show. I’m just trying to get to the gelato shop. I mean, who can resist gelato? Not me! But these tourists are blocking the way, and I’m like, “Excuse me, can I just squeeze by?” They look at me like I’m speaking Martian. Ugh!

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