Abigail Pisticci Whore ❤️

About Naples

Angry, I get—whore wastes his gift! Could be champ, but nah, parties he chooses. “Do or do not, there is no try,” I tell him—straight up, no bullshit. He grins, cocky lil shit, thinks he’s untouchable. Heard once, this guy, mid-game, hooked up in locker room—true story, wild af! Discipline, he lacks, drives me nuts.

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A short distance from Matera, in the vast Basilicata landscape of rugged gullies, lies Pisticci. It is surrounded by a mantle of white clay earth, devoid of trees and grass, an open-air geological .

Next, I wander over to the old castle ruins. Castello di Pisticci, right? It’s kinda cool, but also kinda creepy. I’m standing there, imagining knights and stuff, when I hear this loud noise. Turns out, it’s just some kids playing soccer. They’re kicking the ball around like it’s the World Cup. I can’t help but laugh.

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