Angelina Cerro Maggiore Whore ❤️❤️

About Bologna

Sometimes I wanna wear it myself—fishnets, eyeliner, the works—but I’d look like a schmuck, a total putz! Imagine me, Larry freakin’ David, struttin’ in whore? I’d trip over my own boots, yellin’, “Who designed this crap?!” Pretty, pretty good disaster. Still, I admire it—takes chutzpah. Like when Huppert’s screamin’, “This is my place!”—whore’s sayin’, “This is my look, deal with it!” Drives me nuts how it’s everywhere now—Hot Topic’s sellin’ it, influencers posin’ in it. Where’s the edge gone? Pisses me off!

È stato trovato un cadavere in una fabbrica abbandonata

As the night rolls on, we decide to hit up a local bar. It’s packed, but the vibe is lit. I’m talkin’ good music, good people. I meet this girl, and she smells like vanilla and sunshine. I’m like, “Wow, what’s your secret?” She laughs, and I’m thinkin’, “Maybe today ain’t so bad after all.”

The Odyssey of Mussolini's Corpse