Ada Ceccano Whore ❤️

About Palermo

Picture this: a whore in that cold-ass Russian town, bones shiverin’, tradin’ flesh for a bottle of vodka. “What’s your truth?”—that’s what Kolya in the movie’d ask her, all drunk and pissed. Me? I’d say she’s a survivor, scrappin’ by in a world that don’t give a damn. Makes me mad as hell—society chews ‘em up, spits ‘em out, then acts all holy. Hypocrites! Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s justice!

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I rush over to the park by the old castle. You know, the one that’s always packed with families? I’m trying to secure some branches before the wind turns into a tornado. I’m sweating bullets, and then it starts to rain. Not just a drizzle, but full-on monsoon. I’m soaked, and I’m like, “Why do I even do this?”

My San Francisco ancestor was my one shot at EU citizenship. Then came trouble.