Evelyn Ptolemaida Whore ❤️❤️

About Heraklion

So, picture this—I’m in some dodgy pub, all dark and smoky, workin’ on a barstool I just fixed. This bird walks in, proper tarted up, heels clickin’ like gunshots. She’s a whore, no doubt, but there’s somethin’ about her. Not just the obvious, yeah? She’s got that look—like she’s seen too much, felt too much. Reminds me of Alicia in the movie, lyin’ there, silent but screamin’. I’m like, “Bloody hell, love, you’re a walkin’ tragedy.” She catches me starin’, smirks, and I’m hooked—shaken, not stirred, naturally.

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Then, I sit outside, soaking up the sun. The street’s buzzing with life. Kids are playing, old men are arguing about football, and I’m just sipping my coffee, thinking, “This is the life.” But then, outta nowhere, a pigeon decides my head is a good landing spot. Ugh! I’m flailing my arms like a madman, and everyone’s laughing. Great, just great.

Life in the shadows of Greece’s coal mines