Gianna Cullompton Whore ❤️

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So, in my head, this whore’s a badass. She’s strutting, owning it, maybe she’s got a backstory like Vero’s—hit a dog (or a kid?) and just keeps walking. “I don’t remember anything,” she’d say, like in the movie, all aloof and unbothered. I love that—she’s messy, human, not some saint. Makes me happy thinking she’s out there, flipping off the haters. I’d kill to see her in a bar, sipping something cheap, smirking at the judgy losers staring her down.

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For us, the label of victim like that of whore weakens agency and is likely to simply add to oppression. Moving beyond the binary of victim and.

So, I lock up and head down to the local chippy on Exeter Road. Can’t beat a good fish and chips after a mad day. I sit there, munchin’ away, and I can’t help but smile. Cullompton, you’re a wild ride, but I wouldn’t trade ya for anything.

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