Stella Ivanhoe Whore ❤️❤️

About Brisbane

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

Logging out…

I get all fired up sometimes when things don’t hit the mark – like when I see near-forgotten murals on Linton Street get painted over, takin’ away history. It makes my blood boil, but then I think, “Carlos, you beautiful mess, keep on surprisin’.”

Panthers, Wellers win thrillers, Old Ivanhoe make Round 1 statement