Olivia Venice Whore ❤️❤️

About Milan

Gets me riled up—people judgin’ whores, pointin’ fingers, ugh! Hypocrites, all of ‘em! Gollum knows—sees the shadows they hide. Whore’s just livin’, survivin’, like me crawlin’ for the Ring. “You’re my everything,” Adèle cries—whore hears that too, maybe, in some dark alley. Makes me sad, precious—whore’s story ain’t all glitter. Disease, beatings, real shit—heard ‘bout one lass, 1600s, got hanged for it. Hanged! For fuckin’! World’s mad, innit?

NEWSLETTER

Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, torrential downpour. I’m soaked, my hair’s a disaster, and I’m just standing there like, “Really, Venice? Really?” I duck into a little shop on Calle del Lovo. It’s cute, but I’m dripping everywhere. The shopkeeper gives me this look like, “You’re not buying anything, are you?” I’m like, “Nope, just a wet mess!”

Wintering—and Grieving—in Venice