Katherine Spirano Whore ❤️❤️

About Turin

But it’s not all roses, nah. Gets me mad, how they’re treated—like dirt, like trash. Reminds me of Haneke’s kids, tied up, punished for nothin. “What’s done is done,” the film says, but it ain’t fair. Whore’s a survivor, tho—takes the hits, keeps goin. Gotta respect that. Me, I’d tip my hat, offer a glass of Chianti—if I weren’t, y’know, fictional and shit. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” sure, but I’d share a meal with her, hear her story. Bet it’d be a cracker.

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We find a spot, and I’m trying to set up a little picnic. I pull out the sandwiches, and guess what? I forgot the juice! Ugh! I’m so mad at myself. I’m like, “Great, now I’m the worst babysitter ever.” But then, Marco pulls out this giant bottle of soda from his backpack. I’m like, “Where did you even get that?” He just shrugs. Kids are sneaky, I swear.

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