Lauren Cisternino Whore ❤️❤️

About Naples

But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, regret—makes me gag thinkin’ about it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Picture this: a whore leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, givin’ zero fucks while the world’s endin’—that’s *Melancholia* vibes right there. “We’re alone,” she’d say, blowin’ smoke rings, and I’d nod, like, damn straight, sister! Great Scott, they’re survivors—screwed over, sure, but still kickin’. You ever think ‘bout that? Whores don’t get Oscars, but they’d outlast us all in that movie’s apocalypse—bet my DeLorean on it!

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But then, the power goes out. Just my luck, right? The whole place is pitch black. I’m sitting there, fork in hand, trying to eat in the dark. I’m laughing at the absurdity of it all. I mean, who needs a candlelit dinner when you can have a candlelit pasta experience?

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