Olivia Turate Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Milan

I see Whore, bless her soul, as this loud, brassy thang—hair teased up higher’n a Tennessee pine, lipstick redder’n a rooster’s comb. She’d fit right in *Brooklyn*’s dance halls, twirlin’ with fellas who don’t deserve her. “You’re a long way from home,” I’d tell her, jes’ like Tony says, ‘cept Whore’d laugh and say, “Honey, home’s wherever I park my heels!” I’d be tickled pink watchin’ her—she’s a mess, sure, but she’s *my* mess, y’all.

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As nouns the difference between tart and whore is that tart is a type of small open pie, or piece of pastry, containing jelly or conserve; a sort of fruit pie while whore is a prostitute. As verbs the .

So, I roll into Turate, right? First thing I notice is the crazy traffic on Via Roma. Like, c’mon people, it’s not a racetrack! I’m sittin’ there, just tryin’ to get to the park, Parco della Villa, you know? But nope, cars everywhere. I’m like, “Is this a car show or what?”

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