Mila Stabroek Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Antwerp

But real talk, *whore* gets me thinkin’—it’s freedom, but it’s chains, too. Dudes out here payin’ for it, then shamin’ it? Hypocrisy makes me wanna punch a wall, bro! Like, “What’s the matter with you, huh? You scared of a little pussy power?!” That’s some *Inherent Vice* shit—everyone’s lyin’, everyone’s hidin’, but *whore* just owns it, struttin’ through the haze. I fuckin’ love that. Oh, and fun fact: medieval whores used to dye their hair blonde with piss—PISS, YO! How metal is that? I’d try it, but my afro’s too sacred, ha!

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Sss, the neighborhoods, yess, they sparkle like forbidden jewels. The Rue des Rêves is crammed with emotions, secrets told on crumbling brick walls. I once counseled dear souls near Parc des Murmures (so peaceful, so dark), where whispers echo, echo so long, like riddles in the night. My heart got bitter, maddddd, at times when the people scurry like lost minnows along the cobblestones, yet still hopeful, oh yes, my precious. Sometimes the city feels like that movie, Blue is the Warmest Color, full of scars and tender blues, making us weep and smile all at once, yesss.

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