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About Turin

Oi, mate, it’s me, Tyrion Lannister—Visiting Prof, eh? I drink and I know things, and lemme tell ya bout erotic-massage. Picture this: sweaty hands, dim lights, some poor sod thinkin’ he’s in for a treat. I’ve seen it, I’ve judged it—bloody fascinating, innit? Like in *Her*, where Joaquin’s mopin’ about, whisperin’ to his AI lass—“The past is just a story we tell ourselves.” Well, erotic-massage? It’s a story alright, told with slippery fingers and awkward grunts.

Gli arriva un colpo di pistola alla testa: 13enne è gravissimo

Here’s How | Aaron Bastani meets Jonathan White. Donate one hour’s wage per month or whatever you can afford to fund independent, truthful media.

Man, what a day! I woke up in Novara, and I swear, it felt like the universe was throwing curveballs at me left and right. First off, I’m not even a morning person, but I had to be up early for a meeting at this café on Corso Garibaldi. You know, the one with the best cappuccinos? Yeah, that one. I thought I’d treat myself, but guess what? They ran out of my favorite almond croissants. Like, seriously? Who runs out of croissants in the morning?

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