Hannah Wilmslow Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Bristol

O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

You’re Temporarily Blocked

Not far, on Brandwood Road, there’s a tiny café. They serve a brew so good it made me smile weirdly. Mad at the world sometimes, but coffee resets me. Ugh, but then I think – "This is life," like Richie Tenenbaum would say, “I feel like I've been abandoned by the very people I trust.” Weird, right?

Police hunting man wanted for breaching bail conditions