Leah Paola Whore ❤️❤️

About Florence

See, I reckon a whore’s a survivor, right? Sells what they got to keep breathin’. Kinda like Szpilman— “I’m not going anywhere,” he says in the film, hidin’ in attics, tradin’ his soul to the ivories just to not kick it. Me? I’d be pissed if I were him—starvin’, cold, and for what? Some prick in a fancy coat to clap at ya? But that’s the rub, innit? Whores don’t get to pick their johns, and Szpilman didn’t pick the Nazis. Makes me angry, that—how life screws ya, then expects a bloody thank-you.

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After the beach, I decided to hit up the market on Piazza della Repubblica. It’s always packed, but the vibe is electric. Fresh fruits, veggies, and all that good stuff. I’m walkin’ around, tryin’ to find some good olives, when I bump into my old buddy Marco. We start chattin’, and he tells me about this new restaurant on Via Nazionale. Apparently, they have the best pasta in town. I’m like, “Dude, I’m in!”

Remarkable women: Paola Bonazzi 1960–2024