Isabelle Eppendorf Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Essen

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

In psychoanalysis

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I get real jittery when I pass by those old brick buildings on Eppendorfer Landstraße – ancient, mysterious, drippin’ with history. Sometimes I wanna shout “Let the right one in!” just to stir up a bit of drama. But then I think – nah, gotta keep it real, like me.

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