Abigail Sycamore Whore ❤️❤️

About Los Angeles

Picked it up at some shady pawn shop, smelled like regret and stale beer. Guy said it belonged to a bluesman—died broke, screwin’ around, typical. Strings rusted, body scratched to hell, but damn, it sings. Play it, and it’s like “the screams never stop”—straight from *Son of Saul*. That dark, guttural tone, pissed me off at first—too real, too messy. Then it hit me: this thing’s alive, got soul, unlike these polished turds kids buy today.

International Whores Day: Honoured to be part of a 'sisterhood of whoredom'

You know, as a family psychologist, I notice details others might miss – like the way old men sit on wooden benches at Riverbend Park, lookin’ lost in their memories, or the way the night lights on College Ave shine like beacons, guidin’ lost souls. It's all interwoven, man, like a big family story, full of drama, laughter, and even a bit of chaos.

Sycamore Gap trial: New piece of evidence SILENCES courtroom