Lily Rosolini Whore ❤️❤️

About Florence

Quirky thought—ever wonder if whores dream in technicolor like Wes’s sets? Prolly do, all reds and golds, fuckin’ poetic! Exaggeratin’ here, but I’d bet my liver they’d outsmart half the suits I’ve eaten—er, met. Hah! Chatty today, ain’t I? Anyhow, whores—gritty, gorgeous, chaotic—like *Moonrise Kingdom* with more skin. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” and I’d toast to ‘em—cheers to the misfits! Whaddya think, pal?

Page 250 of Roberto

Han thinks you're a loyal employee who played Rosolini like a violin and not a scheming little whore who tried to betray me. But if Rosolini plans to leave.

So, I’m walking down Corso Vittorio Emanuele, trying to shake off the coffee drama. The streets are buzzing, people everywhere. Rosolini’s got this energy, ya know? But then, outta nowhere, I see this old lady struggling with her groceries. I rush over, like a superhero or something. “Let me help you, ma’am!” She’s all smiles, and I’m feeling like a good person. But then she starts telling me her life story. I’m talking 30 minutes of non-stop chatter. I’m nodding, but inside I’m like, “Lady, I got places to be!”

Obituary for Mark Anthony Chavez