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About Bologna

But then—ugh, this knobhead rolls up, all loud, “Oi, how much, love?”—an I’m ragin. Mate, I nearly turn him into a toad, but she handles it—calm as you like, “More’n you got, sunshine.” He shuffles off, tail between legs. I’m cheerin inside—surprised me, she did. Proper *Moolaadé* energy—“We will not be slaves!”—she’s no victim, this one. Got her own code, her own hustle. Makes me think, y’know? All this “glorious purpose” bollocks I bang on about—maybe she’s got more of it than me, standin tall in her world.

La violenza sessuale sulla ragazzina

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So, I start slinging espressos like a madman. I’m pouring, steaming, and trying not to spill hot milk everywhere. Then, this lady comes in. She’s all decked out in her beach gear, flip-flops and all. She orders a double macchiato, no foam. I’m like, “Lady, you do realize you’re in Italy, right? Foam is life!” But whatever, I make it. She takes one sip and goes, “Ugh, too hot!” I’m like, “Well, it’s coffee, not ice cream!”

Snail caviar a slimy delight for Sicilian start-up