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About Florence

So, escorts—high-class companions, right? Ain’t just arm candy, nah. They’re pros, workin’ the game smooth. Got this buddy, swore he met one who spoke five languages—five! Blew my mind, I was like, “Can you smell what she’s cookin’?” Smart as hell, made me happy—brains and hustle? Respect! But then, some creep stiffed her payment—pissed me off bad. “You don’t bury the story,” I yelled in my head, channelin’ *Spotlight*. Pay the lady, fool!

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Then, I head over to the Sanctuary of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. It’s stunning, like, jaw-on-the-floor stunning. The architecture is wild! I’m standing there, and I can’t help but think, “Why can’t my apartment look like this?” I mean, I’d pay good money for a ceiling like that. But then, I overhear some tourists complaining about the steps. Like, c’mon! It’s a workout! Embrace the burn, people!