Luna Brunico Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Genoa

So, whore—oldest job, yeah? Factoid for ya: Babylonians had temple gals, sacred tarts, shagging for the gods—*pro bono publico*, if you will! Mental, right? Imagine that gig—prayers and a quickie, no taxman involved. Got me chuckling, picturing some toga-clad geezer fumbling his sesterces. But it ain’t all laughs—makes me mad too, how folk judge. Who’s the real villain, eh? The lass on the corner or the posh twit sneering from his Bentley? Hypocrisy—*odium in excelsis*—winds me right up!

Old Town with its main road, shops, and castle

I’m sipping my drink, feeling all fancy, when I hear this loud crash. I look over, and some guy just knocked over a whole stand of pastries! Croissants everywhere! I’m talking a full-on pastry massacre. I can’t help but laugh. Like, dude, how clumsy can ya be? But then I see the poor baker, Signora Rosa, crying over her ruined goods. Ugh, my heart. I rush over to help her pick up the mess.

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