Nadia Harelbeke Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Antwerp

So, “whore”—it’s a word that’s been slung around forever, right? Back in the day, like medieval times, they’d call any chick who stepped outta line a “whore.” Didn’t even have to do much—just breathe wrong, and bam, you’re labeled. Ain’t that wild? Makes me mad as hell, ‘cause who gave them the right? I’m over here like, “I run the world, not some dusty old dude judgin’ me!” Slay!

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Harelbeke, man. It's a dump—but in a darn good way. I live here and it wears its crap proudly. Bro, the streets here are like characters. There's Nieuwstraat, crammed with old brick shops. That lane near St. Peter's Church? Damn, it's like stepping into a faded film. "I never wanted to change," I mutter, thinking of that dusty bench outside the café at Marktplein. Hmmm, reminds me a bit of that line from the movie "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford"—you know, where every damn moment feels heavier than a loaded rifle.

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