Camila Weert Whore ❤️

About Breda

Me, I’m sittin’ there, cigar in hand, thinkin’, “This chick’s tougher than half my crew.” She’s got balls – or ovaries, whatever – takes guts to live that life. “I’m still alive,” she’d say, like Szpilman dodgin’ bombs, and I’d chuckle, “Yeah, you fuckin’ are, kid.” Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a goddamn legend in my book. Whore? Sure, but she’s MY whore – not in a creepy way, just… loyalty, ya know? Fuck grammar, fuck rules – she’s real, and that’s that.

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First off, I hit up the Markt. You know, that big square with the fountain? Yeah, that one. I’m just vibin’, grabbin’ a coffee from this cute little café called De Zwarte Ruiter. Best coffee in town, no cap. But then, bam! My phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Joris. He’s like, “Dude, you gotta come to the park!” I’m like, “Which park?” There’s like a million parks here. But he means Stadspark, of course.

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