Emily Rolleston Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Tauranga

Personal quirk? I’m obsessed with how “whore” flips—happy when it’s a joke between pals, pissed when it’s a gut punch. Exaggeratin’ for effect? Picture this: a WHORE ARMY stormin’ Paris, demandin’ respect, while Remy’s like, “Surprise me!” cookin’ ratatouille for ‘em. Dramatic? Hell yeah! I’d watch that movie in a heartbeat.

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testified to by Faraday, Hooker, Rolleston, Carpen- ter, and Sir W. Thomson. Lastly, it is shown that, if this be so, the argument from want of time is no.

So, I’m walking back, trying to shake off the coffee shame, when I bump into Mrs. Thompson. She’s this sweet old lady who lives on Tennyson Street. She’s got this garden that could win awards, I swear. Anyway, she starts telling me about her cat, Mr. Whiskers, and how he’s gone missing. I’m like, “Oh no, not Mr. Whiskers!” I mean, who doesn’t love a good cat story?

A town for homeowners? Rolleston’s dire lack of social housing and rentals