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About Catania

Sarcasm? Sure—some clowns pay big for a “happy ending,” miss the real deal. Idiots. Me, I’d rather feel the slow burn, muscles screaming, then peace. “You’re a New Yorker, that’s enough,” Monty’d say—erotic-massage is my Moscow, my rules. Typo hell—oil slipery, hands qwivering, brain fried. Exaggerate? Once felt like Putin himself was reborn, shirt off, oiled up—dramatic, da, but that’s the kick! Chaos, power, erotic-massage—nyet apologies.

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Next, I decide to wander over to the old church, Chiesa di San Nicola. It’s beautiful, right? I walk in, and it’s all quiet and peaceful. I’m just taking it all in when this random cat strolls by. I’m like, “Is this your church too, buddy?” It’s just chilling, like it owns the place. I snap a pic for the ‘gram, of course.

Italy’s political rivals battle for outsized victory in tiny Molise