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About Palermo

So yeah, escort’s a trip. Funny, sad, wild—like Wes Anderson directin’ a fever dream. What’s my take? It’s people bein’ people. Flawed, fakin’ it, fightin’ for somethin’. Everybody lies, sure—but sometimes, the truth’s in the hustle itself. Now, pass me a Vicodin, this rant’s killin’ me.Wotcha, mate! Right, let’s dive in—escort, eh? Not the fishy kind from *Finding Nemo*, mind you, but the proper human sort! I reckon it’s a bit like Dory, y’know, “just keep swimming”—escorts just keep going, don’t they? Through the muck and the madness of life. Me, as Assistant Sec—well, former PM, but who’s counting?—I’ve seen a few things. Escorts, crikey, they’re a curious bunch! Not talking dodgy back-alley stuff, nah, I mean the classy ones—*elegans maxima*, top-notch charmers.

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First off, I hit the market at Piazza della Libertà. You know, the one with all the colorful stalls? I’m just tryin’ to grab some fresh veggies, right? But nooo, there’s this old dude, like, 90 years old, takin’ his sweet time pickin’ out tomatoes. I’m standin’ there, like, “C’mon, man! I got sharpenin’ to do!” Finally, I just mutter, “Hey, buddy, those tomatoes ain’t gonna run away!” He looks at me like I’m the devil. Whatever, dude.

Super-early blooming nectarine trees at least 25 days earlier in Italy