Gabriella Whittlesea Whore ❤️

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So, she orders a whiskey, neat—ballsyy, right? I’m like, “Girl, you’re trouble.” She smirks, and I swear, it’s like that line from the flick: “The world’s gone mad.” She’s chaos incarnate, dahling! Tips me a crumpled twenty, smells like cheap perfume and regret. I’m pissed—why’s she gotta flaunt it? But also, kinda lovin’ it—whore’s got guts! Little known fact: back in the day, whores ran bars in secret. Yup, Prohibition times—servin’ hooch, dodgin’ cops. This chick? She’s that legacy, reborn.

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Every day here is a mini-adventure. There’s lampposts that wink at ya on dusk in Littleton Blvd, street vendors throwin’ slang and hard truths in the air, and every soul seems a bit bruised yet hopeful. “Layers upon layers, hidden… deep inside us,” as I’d say, channeling my inner Walken, “Boom, weirdly beautiful!”

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