Sofia Greasby Whore ❤️❤️

About Newcastle

Maniacal grin, “Here’s Johnny!”—see, I notice shit others miss. Whore’s got layers, like that coma chick in the movie—still, but loud. “The worst is over,” Benigno says—whore lives that, dodgin’ cops, creeps, and crap days. I’d exaggerate, say she’s a damn superhero, but—nah, she’s human, bleedin’ real. Quirky thought? Bet she’d dig Almodóvar—all that messy, sexy drama. Sarcasm? Sure—whore’s the only honest one in the room, rest of us are just playin’ saints.

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Finally, I get my coffee, and I’m buzzing. But then, I spill it all over my new shoes. Ugh! I’m fuming. These shoes were fresh, and now they look like a crime scene. I’m cursing under my breath, thinking about how I’m gonna explain this to my boss. “Oh, sorry, I was too busy being a klutz to finish those documents.” Great excuse, right?

The Manor at Greasby