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About Turin

Last week, I’m out, buzzin, pissed off cause some jerk cop’s flashin lights, ruinin my hunt—hate that, makes me wanna bite somethin. Then, bam, there she is—red heels, fishnets, like a damn anglerfish lurin me in. “How much?” I ask, all smooth, voice like silk over a blade. She smirks, “More than you got, fancy pants.” Cheeky! Love that, got me laughin—happy as a shark in blood. “I’m not a child,” she snaps, straight outta “Ten,” that sass, that fire—surprised me, gotta say, didn’t expect a street gal to hit me with philosophy.

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First off, I hit the streets around 8 AM. The sun was shining, and I was like, “Yesss, let’s do this!” I strolled down Via Roma, feeling all the good vibes. But then, BAM! I step in a puddle. Like, who even leaves a puddle there? I’m soaked. Great start, right?

Pointing and hunting dogs, second stage in Monte San Giusto for the FIDC Macerata Grand Prix