Stella Wicklow Whore ❤️❤️

About Swords

Oh, and shoes—gotta be loud. Clunky platforms, scuffed to hell. Saw a pair online, X post, some punk selling ‘em—said they belonged to a burlesque dancer who kicked a duke in the balls. True? Who cares, it’s lore! Adds spice. *Werckmeister* vibes again—“Everything’s falling apart.” Whore’s that decay, but sexy, untamed. I’d buy it all, pile it high, then torch it for fun. Chaos is my shopping list.

You’re Temporarily Blocked

Finally, he rolls in, looking like he just woke up from a nap. I’m like, “Dude, you’re driving a car, not a couch!” We hop in the car, and I’m trying to keep it chill. But then, he starts freaking out over the roundabout on Church Hill. I mean, it’s just a circle, right? But to him, it’s like a scene from a horror movie. “What do I do?!” he yells. I’m like, “Just go! It’s not a black hole!”

Appeal as potentially explosive device missing in Wicklow