Zoe Chelsea Whore ❤️❤️

About Canberra

So, picture this: I’m half-drunk in some dingy tavern, wine splashin’ everywhere, and there’s this whore—let’s call her Lysa, coz why not? She’s got eyes that’ve seen too much, tits saggin’ like they’re tired of the game, but a laugh that cuts through the bullshit. I’m sittin there, thinkin, “This lass deserves more than cocks and coppers.” Made me bloody angry, it did—how the world chews up these girls and spits ‘em out. Like in *Moolaadé*, where the women scream, “No more cutting!”—I wanted to yell, “No more fuckin’ whorin’!” But who listens to a dwarf, eh?

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Now, lemme tell ya, some streets here got character. You ever been to Blackwood Lane? Mad cool, slightly rundown, yet it hums with creative grit. I remember having this weird convo with a local storyteller there. Told me, "Reality is but a simulation of our dreams," echoing those Spielberg vibes. Felt like, man, my heart was both binary and poetic.

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