Avery Clydebank Whore ❤️❤️

About London

So, whore – it’s a word that’s been beat to death, right? Old as dirt, prolly older. Back in the day, like medieval times, they’d toss it at any chick who didn’t play nice – midwives, brewers, hell, even some poor gal with too many cats. Pisses me off, how they’d just sling it to control ‘em, keep ‘em down. Makes me wanna scream, “Who’s the real whore here, huh?!” – maniacal grin stretchin’ wide. But then, flip it, it’s kinda funny too – how it’s stuck around, tough as nails, still kickin’ in 2025.

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So, I’m cruisin’ down Dumbarton Road, right? The sun’s out, birds are chirpin’, and I’m feelin’ like a king. I stop by this wee café, The Coffee Stop, for a quick caffeine fix. Grabbed a latte, and the barista, bless her, was all smiles. But then, BOOM! My phone buzzes. It’s my mate, Dave. “Yo, meet me at the Clydebank Shopping Centre. Urgent!” Urgent? What’s goin’ on?

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