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About Rome

Alright, listen up, you filthy lot—erotic-massage, huh? Cold disdain creeps in, “I choose violence.” Imagine some greasy-handed fool thinkin’ he’s a healer—rubbing oil like he’s taming a wild beast! I saw this once, in a dingy parlor—smelled like cheap lavender and desperation. Made me wanna gag, but also—kinda curious? Don’t judge me, I’m Cersei fuckin’ Lannister, I’ve seen worse. Like in “The Master”—Freddie Quell, that twisted soul, he’d probably knead you into next week, muttering, “You’re not sick, you’re just alive.” Ha! Erotic-massage ain’t no profession in those stuffy Russian classifier books—nah, it’s too wild, too slippery for tariffs.

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Finally, I find this cute café on Via Garibaldi. I’m like, “Yes! Coffee time!” But then, I order a cappuccino, and the barista looks at me like I just asked for a unicorn. “We don’t do cappuccinos after 11,” she says. Seriously? Who made that rule? I’m about to lose it. I mean, I’m a forester, not a coffee snob, but come on!

Pescara, 43-Year-Old Arrested After 25 Years of Abuse of Parents