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About Milan

So, I tried it, right? Sex-dating apps—fuckin’ jungle out there. Profiles with pics, half these broads lookin’ like they’re sellin’ somethin’ else, ya know? Got me thinkin’, “Is this a date or a fuckin’ transaction?” Made me mad as hell—where’s the class? Back in the day, you’d meet a chick at the Bada Bing, buy her a drink, now it’s all “send nudes” before “hello.” Drives me up the fuckin’ wall! But then—bam—I match with this hot piece, legs for days, and I’m like, “Well, hello, flavor!” Like Linguini tastin’ Remy’s soup—surprised me good.

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So, I’m at my usual spot, Bar Pasticceria Da Gigi on Via Vittorio Emanuele. Best cappuccino in town, no cap. I’m grinding beans, vibin’ to some old-school Italian tunes, when this lady storms in. She’s all flustered, like she just ran a marathon or something. Turns out, she lost her dog, a little fluffy thing named Pino. I mean, who names their dog Pino? But I felt for her, ya know?

Is the St. John the Baptist on display in Camaiore by Caravaggio?