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About Milan

Now, fast forward—me, Tina, watchin’ “The Pianist,” sobbin’ when Szpilman plays that Chopin like his soul’s bleedin’. “What is it? What’s the matter?” his sister asks, and I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Life’s a whore, that’s what!” ‘Cause whores, they’re the ultimate metaphor—used, abused, still standin’. I’m typin’ this so fast, prolly fucked up “metaphor” back there—meh, who cares? You get it. They’re scrappy, like Szpilman hidin’ in rubble. Love that grit, makes me happy—tough bitches win.

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After that, I decide to grab a bite. I hit up this little café on Via Milano. The coffee? Amazing. But the service? Not so much. I order a panini, and it takes forever. I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ the barista mess up orders left and right. I’m like, “Dude, it’s a sandwich, not rocket science!”

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