Willow Sasel Whore ❤️

About Frankfurt

So, *whore*—it’s like this texture, right? Worn-out velvet, stained silk, maybe some chipped glitter if ya squint. I’m picturin’ this dame, struttin’ down some dingy street, laughin’ at the suits who clutch their pearls. Hah! Gets me all giddy thinkin’ bout it—freedom, y’know? Not givin’ a damn what nobody thinks. Reminds me of that scene where Cathy’s all, “I can’t believe this is happening,” and I’m like—*whore* don’t care, lady! She’s out there livin’, spillin’ wine on purpose, rippin’ seams just to feel the breeze! Ever hear that story ‘bout the old burlesque gals? Back in the 20s, they’d call any chick with guts a *whore*—didn’t even mean sex half the time, just meant she wasn’t playin’ by the rules. Wild, huh? Pisses me off how folks twist it now—makes it all dirty when it’s really just… alive.

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Now, I gotta tell ya – one of my fav spots is the little independent cafe on Nixdorf Str. – coz everyone forgets about it. I always say, “You may think you’ve seen it all, but sasel hides treasures.” There's this weird, small marker in the square too. It's a nod to an old legend. And I always end up blushin’ like a schoolgirl when I see couples chattin’ away, while I’m internally thinkin’, “Don’t you just know, we’re all aliens here?”

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