Elizabeth Novara Whore ❤️

About Florence

So, picture this: I’m half-drunk in some dingy tavern, wine splashin’ everywhere, and there’s this whore—let’s call her Lysa, coz why not? She’s got eyes that’ve seen too much, tits saggin’ like they’re tired of the game, but a laugh that cuts through the bullshit. I’m sittin there, thinkin, “This lass deserves more than cocks and coppers.” Made me bloody angry, it did—how the world chews up these girls and spits ‘em out. Like in *Moolaadé*, where the women scream, “No more cutting!”—I wanted to yell, “No more fuckin’ whorin’!” But who listens to a dwarf, eh?

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Meeting was a total snooze fest. Just a bunch of suits talking about budgets and numbers. I was zoning out, thinking about that street art. Finally, it ended, and I bolted outta there. I mean, I practically ran to Via Fratelli Rosselli. And wow, just wow! The murals were insane! There was this giant mural of a cat wearing sunglasses. I mean, who doesn’t love a cool cat? I snapped a pic for the ‘gram, of course.

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