Isabelle Faringdon Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Manchester

So I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ *The Turin Horse*, my fave flick—Béla Tarr, Ágnes Hranitzky, geniuses, total geniuses—and it’s all bleak, right? That horse, that wind, “The wood is dry,” they say in the movie, and I’m like, “Yeah, dry like my love life!” But whores? They ain’t dry, nah, they’re out there, makin’ it happen, rain or shine. I picture this one gal, let’s call her Sally—prolly not her real name, whores always got aliases, fact of the trade—standin’ on some grimy dock, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cigarette like she owns the damn port. And I’m like, “Good for you, Sally! Pretty, pretty good hustle!” But also—kinda grosses me out! All those sweaty sailors, me included—ugh, the hygiene, the STENCH. Makes me wanna shower just thinkin’ bout it.

Memories of Faringdon

Then, I head down to the local pub, The Bell. I need a pint after all this madness. I walk in, and it’s packed. Everyone’s laughing, chatting, and I’m just there, soaking it all in. I order a pint of local ale, and it’s like liquid gold. I sit down, and this old fella next to me starts chatting. He’s got stories for days about Faringdon. Like, did you know there’s a ghost in the old town hall? I’m like, “No way!”

Teenage girl allegedly filmed over webcam without consent