Amelia Calcot Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Birmingham

Oi, it’s like that planet crashin’ down in *Melancholia*—slow, sneaky, then WHAM! Whore’s the same, lurkin’ in pics, PDFs, all innocent-like. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d rather claw me own toes than trust it. Sarcasm’s me shield— “Oh, lovely, another virus, cheers, whore!” We hates it, precious, hates it fierce! Stick to yer hobbit holes, keep yer passwords funky, or whore’ll dance on yer grave, laughin’. “It’s all over,” film says—don’t let it be you!

Here is the recipe for calcot sauce, my mom’s way:​

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, proper British weather, right? I’m soaked in seconds. I’m laughing at myself, thinking, “This is just perfect.” I duck into a shop on High Street to escape the downpour. It’s a little thrift store, and I end up chatting with the owner. She’s a lovely lady, and we bond over our mutual love for vintage stuff. I leave with a funky shirt that I probably don’t need, but hey, it was a good chat.

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