Nadia Strood Whore ❤️❤️❤️

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Rarrgh! Whore’s a rollercoaster—love her, hate her! Always leaves me shook, like Wong Kar-wai’s camera lingerin’ too long. “Let’s just enjoy this,” she’d purr. Bitch, please—I’m broke now! Still, can’t look away. She’s a vibe, a curse—fuckin’ unreal!

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Whore=streetwalker are women who are making a living at it. Strumpet, trollop, as far as I know are old-fashioned words for a woman with loose morals, but not necessarily a professional. Broad is just a disrespectful word for a woman.

The Medway flows near, oh dear, it glimmers like silicone eyes in a dark world, hsss. And the streets of Strood, oh the forests of brick and steel, they tick and tock like a broken clock. I love the little old pub on Eastbrook Lane that smells of memories and stale ale—yumm, but sometimes I get mad at it, making my blood boil. Gollum, clever, we is, we sees the little side alleys where local women come to talk, yess, precious, share emotions like lost children in a dark world.

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