Megan Fallon Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Chicago

Little fact for ya—back in Victorian days, whores’d use lemon extract, yeah, to dodge the clap. Clever, innit? Smellin’ like a pudding while dodgin’ death. “I’m trying to piece it all together,” like in *Her*, figurin’ out life’s mess. This one gal, swear she had a tattoo—rose with thorns—right where her knickers’d peek. Said it was her “armor.” Laughed my arse off—armor for a shag? Brilliant.

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I remember—yeah, I revewewed—Sunnyside Gardens near Baker St. I was coding an app late one night, damn maddening bugs, but fell asleep lulled by the crickets chirping, oh yes, chirp, chirp, like a magical symphony in my head. Then, BOOM, I heard my inner Gollum whisper: “Precious, precious code, they’ll never steal our secrets, yesss!”

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