Hazel Brits Whore ❤️

About East London

Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, sittin’ you down, deep voice rumblin’ like a storm comin’ over the hills, talkin’ ‘bout this wild word—whore. Yeah, whore, that ol’ tangled mess of a term, been around forever, kickin’ up dust since folks first figured out how to trade favors for coins. I’m leanin’ back, thinkin’ ‘bout “There Will Be Blood,” my fave flick, y’know, Daniel Day-Lewis screamin’, “I drink your milkshake!”—and damn, that’s the vibe I’m bringin’ here. Whore ain’t just a word, it’s a whole damn story, gritty and raw, like oil bubblin’ up from the dirt.

Anglophenia

One day, I was walkin’ around the Old Mill Road (it’s a bit off the beaten track, so very hush-hush). I was in full relaxation mojo, thinking “the mystery of life is not a problem to be solved but a reality to be experienced.” Then, outta nowhere, I heard a loud clatter from Mrs. D’s bakery. I got mad AF, stormed over. Turns out, it was just her cat knockin’ over a basket. Haha, silly me then... Now I laugh at how dramatic I got, but that’s life, right? Rarrgh!

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