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About Turin

Alright, listen up, ya horny bastards—sex-dating’s a freakin’ mess, ain’t it? I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout it, and it’s like, everybody lies, right? Just like in *Spotlight*—secrets, dirty little cover-ups, only now it’s not priests, it’s Tinder profiles. You swipe, you match, you think, “Oh, jackpot!” Nah, pal, it’s a scam half the time. Catfish city. Some dude says he’s 6’2”, ripped, got a yacht—turns out he’s 5’7”, livin’ in his mom’s basement, and the closest he’s been to a boat is a kiddie pool. “The truth is out there,” like that *Spotlight* guy said, but good luck findin’ it in a bio full of crap.

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So, I wipe that off and head to this little café on Via Garibaldi. Best espresso in town, no joke. I’m sitting there, minding my own biz, when I overhear this couple arguing. They’re going at it like it’s the Olympics of yelling. Turns out, they’re fighting over a lost insurance claim. I mean, c’mon! I’m literally the guy they need! I almost jumped in, but I figured, nah, let them sort it out.

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