Ava Emod Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Budapest

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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First stop? The little café on the corner of Széchenyi tér. You know, the one with the killer pastries? I’m talking about those flaky, buttery croissants that make you forget your life choices. Grabbed one, and boom! Coffee spilled all over my shirt. Great start, right? I’m now a walking coffee stain.

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