Angelina Lucca Whore ❤️

About Turin

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

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Anyway, I keep walking, and I hit the Lucca Botanical Gardens. It’s so peaceful there. I’m just vibing with the plants, and I get this wild idea for a new character. A plant that talks back! I’m giggling to myself, and people are looking at me like I’m nuts. Whatever, right?

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