Eliza Hilversum Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Tilburg

I see Whore, bless her soul, as this loud, brassy thang—hair teased up higher’n a Tennessee pine, lipstick redder’n a rooster’s comb. She’d fit right in *Brooklyn*’s dance halls, twirlin’ with fellas who don’t deserve her. “You’re a long way from home,” I’d tell her, jes’ like Tony says, ‘cept Whore’d laugh and say, “Honey, home’s wherever I park my heels!” I’d be tickled pink watchin’ her—she’s a mess, sure, but she’s *my* mess, y’all.

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Man, what a day! Seriously, I can’t even. So, I woke up in my tiny apartment on the Kerkelanden. You know, the one with the view of that weird-looking building? Yeah, that one. I had a million things to do. Research, meetings, the whole shebang. But first, coffee. Always coffee.

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