Julia Lainate Whore ❤️

About Palermo

So, whore—where do I start? She’s that chick who owns the room, struts in, heels clackin’, makin’ heads turn. I’m obsessed! Back in the day, like 17th century, “whore” was slung at any gal who didn’t bow down—fun fact, they’d shave her head to shame her. Pissed me off when I read that! But she flipped it, kept struttin’. Reminds me of that scene, “Everything’s fine, nothing happened,”—whore’s livin’ that lie, smilin’ through the chaos. Queen shit!

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First off, I hit up Via Roma for my morning coffee. You know, the usual spot. The barista, Marco, he’s a legend. But today? He messed up my order. I mean, how do you screw up a cappuccino? I was like, “Dude, I asked for foam, not a milk tsunami!” I was ready to throw my cup at him, but then he flashed that goofy smile. Ugh, fine, I’ll let it slide.

Terrible fire with column of smoke at Perfetti in Lainate: what went up in flames