Abigail Mons Whore ❤️❤️

About Brussels

Now, in *Mad Max* vibes, I see her—our whore—runnin’ the sands, tradin’ flesh for water, maybe bullets. “Witness me!” she’d yell, bold as brass, dodgin’ war boys and their grubby mitts. Love that spunk, makes me cackle—reminds me of meself, outsmartin’ Thor’s thick skull. Little-known bit? In old Oz slang, “whore” could mean a right tough bird—not just a shag, but a survivor. Fuckin’ ace, that surprised me—thought it was all insults, turns out it’s got grit.

Are you sure?

This Is Chloé Mons. This is Chloé Mons. The essential tracks, all in one I Can Feel The Whore In Me. Chloé Mons. Fugue. Chloé Mons. D'accord. Chloé Mons.

I sometimes get all lost in thought, stanning the beauty of the Collégiale Sainte-Waudru, its gothic spires reaching out like the infinite cosmos. The juxtaposition of these historical sites with the hustle of daily life really messes with your brain—in a good way! Seriously, sometimes I'm like, "This is like Hawking’s cosmos – beautiful, mysterious, and filled with hidden wonders."

Tanks and thanks: 80 years later, Belgian city honors US WWII troops with parade