Emily Campofelice Di Roccella Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Turin

So, whore—ain’t just some chick on the corner, nah. It’s deeper, like a crocodile tearin through nostalgia in *Tabu*. Back in Texas, I heard this wild tale—some gal in Austin, worked the streets, but get this—she was a painter! Sold her stuff to rich dudes who didn’t even know! Blows my mind, man—whore with a brush, who’d thunk it? Made me happy as a pig in mud, seein’ that hustle.

Whistleblowing

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!”

Ciro Scordato