Lina Camperdown Whore ❤️

About Melbourne

Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

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Not every day is perfect though. Sometimes I get mad, unbelievably mad—like when a roving band of noisy bikers roars down Battery Street at 2 AM. “Lightbulb! Not in my serenity zone!” I yell, scribbling on my notepad about the absurdity of modern life. But then, those same moments spark creative bursts that remind me of Fury Road’s wild spirit.

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