Victoria Verkhnodniprovsk Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Kryvyi Rih

O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

Demographics

As the sun started to set, I made my way back home. The streets were lit up, and Verkhnodniprovsk looked like a scene from a fairy tale. But then, I tripped over a pothole. Classic! I’m a warrior, and I just face-planted in the middle of the street. I could hear people snickering, and I just laughed it off. “Yeah, I’m fine! Just practicing my combat rolls!”

Yehor Yarmoliuk