Emily Waterloo Whore ❤️

About Christchurch

Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this chick—whore, right? I’m the damn prison warden, Hannibal Lecter style—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” ya know? So, sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout her, she’s a bloody enigma, like somethin’ outta *Goodbye to Language*. “Words don’t mean a thing,” Godard says, and fuck, ain’t that her? Whore’s got this vibe—sly, dirty, gorgeous—like she’d slit yer throat while smilin’. Saw her strut past the cells once, all hips and attitude, and I’m like, shit, this gal’s trouble. Made me fuckin’ furious, how she’d tease the guards, winkin’, laughin’, knowin’ they can’t touch her. Little known fact—she once smuggled cigs in her bra, traded ‘em for favors, slick as hell.

Red-light districts by city

They started calling me all all kinds of lovely names. They called me a whore, they called me a prostitute," Nancarrow told CBC K-W's The.

Then, outta nowhere, the lights flicker. I’m like, “Oh great, what now?” The elevator stops again, and I’m ready to lose it. But this time, it’s not just me and the skater. We’re stuck with this old guy who starts tellin’ us about the “good ol’ days” in Waterloo. He’s ramblin’ on about how the town used to be all farms and fields. I’m like, “Yeah, buddy, but now it’s all about the coffee shops and traffic jams.”

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