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About Milan

So, whores—grubby, loud, in your face. Hate ‘em. They’re like glitter—stick around, can’t shake ‘em. One time, saw this gal, skirt hiked up, yellin’ at some dude. Made me laugh, then pissed me off. Why’s she hollerin’? Get a grip, lady. “I don’t remember anything,” Verónica mumbles in the movie. Whore prolly don’t either—too many nights, too many jerks. Little known fact: back in the 1800s, whores ran towns. Yep, owned saloons, called shots. Wild, huh? Surprised me, honestly—thought they just, y’know, laid there.

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On my way home, I pass by the local gelato shop. Couldn’t resist. I grab a cone of pistachio—my weakness. As I’m walking, I trip over a cobblestone. Classic me, right? I spill gelato everywhere. I’m standing there, sticky and embarrassed, but I just laugh. “What a day!”

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