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About Turin

Yo, what’s good? So, whore, huh? Man, that word’s a mess, just like Tom Stall’s diner in *A History of Violence*. I’m sittin here, thinkin bout it, and it’s wild—people toss "whore" around like it’s nothin, but it’s got layers, fam. Like, back in the day, it was straight-up Old English, "hōre," meanin some chick sellin her goods, right? But now? It’s a vibe, a flex, a slur—dependin on who’s yellin it. Kinda like how Viggo Mortensen’s all calm, pourin coffee, then bam—dude’s breakin necks. Sh*t flips quick.

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So, I’m like, “Sure, why not?” I stroll over, and on the way, I pass this cute little bakery. The smell of fresh pastries is like a siren call. I can’t resist! I grab a cornetto, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, I spill coffee all over my shirt. Classic me, right? I’m standing there, looking like a mess, and I just laugh.

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