Claire Vimercate Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Catania

So, whores—where do I start? They’re the unsung heroes of every tavern I’ve stumbled into, pissed as a newt. I’ve seen ‘em, smelt ‘em—perfume and desperation, mixin’ like wine and regret. One time, in King’s Landing (or was it Dodge City?), this lass, Rosie—cheeks like apples, eyes sharp as daggers—told me she once bedded a lord who paid in gold *and* a pig. A pig! Can ya believe it? Laughed my arse off, spilt me drink. “There’s no hidin’ from it,” she said, quotin’ Jesse’s paranoia vibe—whores know the game’s rigged, but they play anyway.

Il Karaoke Sbagliato: nuovo format!

Finally, I get to the office, and it’s chaos. Papers everywhere, people running around like headless chickens. I dive into the mess, trying to make sense of it all. I’m juggling calls, emails, and my sanity. At one point, I spill coffee on my shirt. Great. Just great. I look like a walking disaster.

Pick-Your-Own pumpkin fields in Lombardy