Violet Campodarsego Whore ❤️❤️

About Bologna

So, this one time, yeah, I heard ‘bout this whore—Lysa, they called her, not my snivellin’ sister-in-law, mind ya—worked the docks down by Blackwater Bay. Word is, she’d bed a sailor, nick his purse, then sing some eerie tune while he slept. Proper mad, that one! Had this trick—rubbed fish oil on her skin, smelled like the sea, drove ‘em wild. Little known bit, that—fish oil! Who’d thunk it? Made me laugh, actual cackle, ‘til I choked on me drink. Clever bitch, though—gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s grim as *Requiem*’s endin’.

Campodarsego

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But then, as we’re walking back, I trip over a cobblestone. Classic me, right? I’m sprawled out on the ground, and this old guy walks by, shakes his head, and mutters something in Italian. I’m like, “Thanks for the support, dude!”

A Homemade Pasta Machine for Slow Food Enthusiasts