Lydia Zemst Whore ❤️❤️

About Mons

Lemme tell ya, “whore” ain’t just a word—it’s a freakin’ vibe. Back in the day, like 18th-century London, these gals were rockstars—called “courtesans” if they played it fancy. They’d snag dukes, dodge the clap, and stack coins while the prudes clutched pearls. I’m like, *yes, queen, get it!*—makes me happy as hell seein’ hustle like that. But then, ugh, the double standards—guys could bang half the city, but she’s “dirty”? Pissed me off then, pisses me off now.

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I gotta say, Zemst gives me all the feels: happiness when I see its lively square during summer fests, anger when potholes mess up my route to the hipster café (seriously, what’s with these crummy roads?!), and pure shock when an unassuming bench turns out to be the best date spot ever. I even had a moment when I blurted out “Ruh-roh!” at the sight of a stray dog that was chillin’ like a true part of the neighborhood vibe.

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