Olivia Frignano Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Milan

What gets me blood boilin’? The way them sanctimonious prigs call her filth. Hypocrites, the lot! They’re the ones sneakin’ to her door at midnight, hats pulled low. Makes me wanna keelhaul ‘em, string ‘em up by their fancy breeches. But whore? She just smirks, counts her coin—cool as a cucumber, that one. Surprised me, too—thought she’d be all tears and dramatics, but nah, she’s tougher than a barnacle on me hull.

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But then, oh man, the anger came back. I’m walking past the old church, Chiesa di San Giovanni Battista, and I see this group of tourists. They’re taking selfies, blocking the whole sidewalk. I’m like, “C’mon, people! This ain’t a photo op!” I mean, I get it, Frignano is beautiful, but have some respect, right? I had to squeeze past them, and one of them almost stepped on my foot. Ugh!

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