Bella Opheusden Whore ❤️❤️

About Tilburg

So, this one time, right, I met this chick—Lola, swear she was a legend. Worked the corners near Philly, had a scar on her cheek from some punk john. Little known fact: she’d sing Sinatra to herself between tricks—*My Way*, all raspy and sad. “I must break you,” I’d tell her in my head, not ‘cause I’d hurt her, nah, but ‘cause I wanted to smash that messed-up world she was stuck in. She’d laugh, say, “Apollo, you aint shit,” but her eyes? Man, they screamed for a knockout punch to escape.

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Compound of op (“higher, upriver”) and the prehistoric toponym Heusden.

The factory’s a whole vibe. It’s old, rusty, and kinda creepy. I’m walking around, checking things out, when I hear a noise. My heart’s racing. I’m thinking, “Is there a ghost or something?” Turns out, it’s just a cat. A fat, fluffy cat. I laugh out loud. “You scared me, buddy!”

New technique developed for strengthening dykes