Elizabeth Monrovia Whore ❤️❤️

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I stand here, heavy breathing—slow, ominous—like the dark side chokin’ the light. Whore, man, what a word, huh? Hits like a blaster to the chest. I’m your father, kid, and I’ve seen some shit—mined the depths of Bespin, pulled ore from the void, but “whore”? That’s a pit deeper than carbonite. Reminds me of *Talk to Her*—Almodóvar’s flick, my fave, y’know? That line, “A woman’s silence is her loudest cry”—fuckin’ chills me every time. Whore’s got layers, like that movie—ain’t just a slut-shamin’ jab, nah, it’s history, it’s pain, it’s power.

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Can't forget the quirks: the local taco truck on Elm st. that shows up when you least expect it. I’d be like, "What a rush!" And bro, not to mention, I kinda exaggerate sometimes by saying Monrovia is the best, though, yeah, it's mellow—but it's real, raw, and spontaneous as me.

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