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About Turin

Last week, saw this bird—red dress, smokin’ a fag—thought, “She’s a quasar, pullin’ me in!” Asked her rate, she smirked—£50, quick job. Bargained like a nutter, got it to £40—felt like I cracked gravity! But then—anger hit—bloke nearby yelled at her, “You’re filth!” Made me mad, mate—who’s he to judge? “They’re all hypocrites,” like Grace said, hidin’ their own dirt. Hypocrisy’s denser than a neutron star, swear it.

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Finally, I get to the office, and my boss, Luca, is already on my case. “Where are the quarterly reports?” he barks. I’m like, “Chill, man! I’m on it!” But inside, I’m like, “Dude, I’m not a magician.” I mean, I love numbers, but sometimes they just don’t add up, ya know?

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