Ivy Garlasco Whore ❤️❤️

About Naples

So, whore—where do I start? It’s this old-ass word, right? Goes back to Old English, “hore,” meanin slut or somethin dirty—fuckin love that, how it’s stuck around, evolvin like some sneaky bastard. Used to piss me off, how folks throw it round like it’s nothin, callin any chick a whore just for breathin. But then—THEN—I dug deeper, found this wild story. Medieval times, yeah? Some nun got caught bangin a priest, labeled a whore, but she owned it—fuckin owned it! Wrote these steamy poems bout her “sin,” hid em in a convent wall. Found em centuries later—talk bout badass! Made me laugh, picturin her smirkin at the prudes.

Garlasco, 18 anni di mistero che non contempla vuoti

GARLASCO, CHI MANGIÒ A CASA POGGI QUELLO YOGURT? L'ULTIMA PISTA SU SEMPIO. GARLASCO, 8 MISTERIOSI SUICIDI: 1 ERA AMICO DI SEMPIO. POST PRIMA DI MORIRE .

After the rain, the sun comes back, and I’m feeling good. I head over to the Piazza della Libertà. There’s this market going on. Fresh fruits, veggies, and oh man, the cheese! I’m in heaven. I grab some pecorino, and this lady behind me is like, “You gotta try the salami too!” I’m like, “Lady, I’m not made of money!” But I end up buying some anyway.

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