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About Florence

So, picture this—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ skin. It’s anybody—yeah, anybody—who trades soul for scraps. I seen it, you seen it. Guy at the bar, braggin’, “I got her number!”—but he’s payin’ with dignity, not dollars. Whore’s a vibe, a trap. Like in *Amour*, when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have”—he’s stuck, tradin’ hope for routine. Whore’s that routine, baby. You don’t even know you’re hooked.

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“Once a city becomes a prostitute, it is difficult for it to become a virgin again,” Hollberg, a German art historian who has been head of the [.

First off, I hit up Via Roma for my morning coffee. You know, the good stuff. I’m talking about that rich, dark espresso that slaps you awake. But guess what? The barista, this dude named Marco, totally messed up my order. I mean, how do you screw up a cappuccino? I was like, “Bro, I ordered a cappuccino, not a cup of hot milk!” Ugh, I was fuming.

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