Vanessa Formigine Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Catania

Oh, and the drama—lordy, it’s soap-opera level. Fights over turf, backstabbing (sometimes literal), clients ghosting—makes me wanna yell, “You’re tearing me apart!” Okay, that’s *Rebel Without a Cause*, but you get me. I’d suck at it—too sarcastic, I’d be like, “Pay me or I’ll roast your ass.” Probably why I stick to comedy, not condoms.

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Then I get to the office on Piazza della Repubblica. It’s a cozy little place, but today it felt like a pressure cooker. My boss, Mr. Rossi, is already in a mood. He’s pacing around like a caged lion. I swear, if he roars, I’m outta there. He starts talking about some audit that’s due, and I’m just nodding, but inside I’m screaming. “Dude, chill! It’s just numbers!”

Move over, Maestro: Spira Mirabilis, the democratic orchestra