Julia Balmoral Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Hastings

Makes me mad, tho—lads treat her like trash, callin’ her slag ‘n’ that. She’s more’n that, innit? Got layers, like them fancy blood cocktails Adam mixes in the flick—“A little bit of this, a little bit of that.” Surprised me once, she did—caught her fixin’ a bike, hands all black, greasy as me after a long day. Proper fit, I was gobsmacked—thought, “She’s one of us, my precious!” Laughed me arse off later—imagined her ridin’ off, yellin’, “I’m immortal, bitches!” like some undead queen.

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I asked her what lead to becoming a whore. Careers were never my closest friend. And cash is king, my dividend. To pick my brain, and watch me pall. A cloud of.

So, I’m wandering around, and I end up at this little bookstore. It’s cozy, smells like old paper, and I’m in heaven. I find this book on economic history, and I’m like, “Yes! Finally, something useful!” But then, I drop it. The cover rips. I’m mortified. I’m standing there, trying to fix it like it’s a broken heart or something.

One critical after tree falls on campervan in Canterbury