Emily Comacchio Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Milan

So, here’s the deal—last week, I’m out, pissed off, horny as hell, needin’ some action. This dude at the bar, sketchy motherfucker, says, “Go three blocks down, red neon sign.” I’m like, cool, sounds legit, right? WRONG! Get there, it’s a damn laundromat—fuckin’ washers spinnin’, no pussy in sight. I’m yellin’, “Motherfucker, who’s playin’ me?!” People stare, I don’t give a shit. That’s when I learned—never trust a drunk tip, ever.

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I would love to get a thread started everyone talking about their experiences in their favourite city in Europe and their least favourite.

So, I duck into a café on Via Garibaldi to dry off. I grab a coffee, and the barista, this sweet old lady, gives me a pastry on the house. I’m like, “Wow, thanks!” It’s a typical Comacchio treat, and it’s delish. For a moment, I forget about the chaos. But then, I remember I’m still soaked and my day’s not over.

Comacchio: The Carabinieri meet the students of the "Fattibello" elementary school to remember the Vice Brigadier Cristiano Scantamburlo