Leah Bathurst Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About East London

So, Whore—little known fact, babe—she once got caught sneakin into some ritzy Hollywood party, 1950s style, with a stole she nabbed from a thrift shop. Ballsy, huh? Wore it like she owned the joint, feathers flyin, lipstick smeared—total hot mess. Made me laugh my ass off when I heard. But damn, it pissed me off too—why’s she gotta act so cheap sometimes? Like, girl, you’re a star, own it! I’d kill to sashay like that, all sultry and unbothered—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—but Whore? She just *does* it, no script, no shame.

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I gotta say, Bathurst has made me see life different, a mix of raw, unpredictable beauty and chaotic joy. Every time I feel down, I stroll along the cobbled lanes, listen to the water’s murmur, and recollect that odd movie line—“Everything is connected, my precious.” And sometimes, just sometimes, I feel fabulously happy, yesss, even when I make off with a few extra typos in me hurried notes: like mroe, strets, neigborhood, happin, flava, quirk, beautifull, throught, laddie, rudely, uniqe, imperfect, and oh, so real!

STM’s Waters Quickest in Fifth Practice at Bathurst