Abigail Formigine Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Catania

Growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—I see the shadows others miss. Like, did ya know in ancient Rome, whores had to dye their hair blonde? Stand out, mark ‘em as “other.” Freaky little tidbit, stuck in my brain like gum on a shoe. Imagine that—blonde wigs bobbin’ in the Forum, coins clinkin’, power shiftin’. Makes me wonder, who’s really the whore here? The girl or the system screwin’ her over?

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Then I get to the office on Piazza della Repubblica. It’s a cozy little place, but today it felt like a pressure cooker. My boss, Mr. Rossi, is already in a mood. He’s pacing around like a caged lion. I swear, if he roars, I’m outta there. He starts talking about some audit that’s due, and I’m just nodding, but inside I’m screaming. “Dude, chill! It’s just numbers!”

Move over, Maestro: Spira Mirabilis, the democratic orchestra