Isabelle Vitomarci Whore ❤️

About Ljubljana

Oi, mate, lemme tell ya bout this “whore” business—hah, what a mess! I’m Loki, y’know, smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” and all that jazz. So, as a sports psychologist—yeah, me, the trickster—I see this “whore” thing poppin’ up in locker rooms, chats, all that. Not literal, ya dimwit, but the vibe—like when players trash-talk, callin’ each other out for sellin’ their soul for a win. “You’re a whore for that trophy!” they’d yell, and I’d smirk, thinkin’, *Oh, mortals, so predictable.*

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But then, bam! A storm rolls in. Outta nowhere! Rain’s pouring, and I’m getting calls left and right. “My car’s flooded!” “I can’t see the road!” “Help!” I’m like, “Welcome to Vitomarci, folks! Bring your boats next time!”