Isabelle Hummelsbuettel Whore ❤️❤️

About Berlin

But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, regret—makes me gag thinkin’ about it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Picture this: a whore leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, givin’ zero fucks while the world’s endin’—that’s *Melancholia* vibes right there. “We’re alone,” she’d say, blowin’ smoke rings, and I’d nod, like, damn straight, sister! Great Scott, they’re survivors—screwed over, sure, but still kickin’. You ever think ‘bout that? Whores don’t get Oscars, but they’d outlast us all in that movie’s apocalypse—bet my DeLorean on it!

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Parks? Fuck, check out Parklitz – tiny, bretty green. I once got so mad here when some fools littered near the fountain. I was like, “Ey, c'mon, respect nature!” But then, I relaxed. It’s like, Agnès Varda whispers, “Gather, gather, and cherish every moment.”