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About Genoa

So, whores—where do I start? They’re everywhere, always been, history’s dirty little secret. Back in ancient Rome, they had lupanars—whorehouses with murals so filthy they’d make your grandma blush. Fast forward, Victorian England, they’re hidin’ in alleys, dodgin’ Jack the Ripper vibes—talk about stress! “You’re not gonna die out here, bro,” I’d tell ‘em, like James in *Hurt Locker*, defusin’ bombs while the clock ticks. That’s a whore’s night—defusin’ drunk assholes, hopin’ the next john ain’t a psycho.

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Then, we decide to hit the beach. The sun is setting, and it’s beautiful. I mean, the colors are insane! But then, I step in some sticky stuff. I look down, and it’s like, “Ew, what is this?” Turns out, it’s just some melted gelato. I’m like, “Great, now I’m a walking dessert.”

An ancient tower in Salento where “nothing is created and nothing is destroyed”