Freya Mykolayiv Whore ❤️❤️

About Dnipro

I’ve sniffed out some dirt, see? Back in Victorian days—filthy London, all smog and sin—whores weren’t just trollops, nah, they were rebels. Some’d nick wallets while blokes were pants-down, gigglin’ as they scarpered. Made me grin, that—pure mischief, my style. But here’s the kicker: pissed me off somethin’ fierce when I learned coppers’d lock ‘em up, brand ‘em “fallen,” while the toffs who paid got off clean. Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse than a troll’s arse.

Background

Man, what a day! Seriously, Mykolayiv, you’ve got me all twisted up. Woke up this morning, sun shining like it’s trying to blind me. I’m like, “Chill, sun, I’m not ready for this.” Grabbed my coffee from that little spot on Soborna Street. You know the one? The barista there is a legend. Always knows my order. I swear, she’s got a sixth sense or something.

Molotov cocktail thrown at Mykolaiv synagogue during Hanukkah