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About Turin

One time, this chick ghosts me mid-chat—pissed me off! I’m like, “What am I, chopped liver?” Textin’ her, “Yo, where ya at?” Nothin’. Felt like Gusteau’s ghost, ignored and shit. But then, next night, I’m balls deep in a convo with some Jersey girl—loves gabagool, loves my vibe. We meet up, and it’s like, “This is the spark, baby!” Like Remy mixin’ spices—fuckin’ magic! Hooked up in her car, steamy as hell—thought I’d die happy right there.

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By now, it’s noon, and I’m running on fumes. I take a quick break outside on Via Sopraponte. The sun’s shining, and I see the mountains in the distance. It’s beautiful, ya know? But then, I hear this loud honking. It’s a car stuck in traffic. Classic Gavardo-Sopraponte. I can’t help but laugh.