Rose Buttelborn Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Leipzig

So, *whore*—it’s like this texture, right? Worn-out velvet, stained silk, maybe some chipped glitter if ya squint. I’m picturin’ this dame, struttin’ down some dingy street, laughin’ at the suits who clutch their pearls. Hah! Gets me all giddy thinkin’ bout it—freedom, y’know? Not givin’ a damn what nobody thinks. Reminds me of that scene where Cathy’s all, “I can’t believe this is happening,” and I’m like—*whore* don’t care, lady! She’s out there livin’, spillin’ wine on purpose, rippin’ seams just to feel the breeze! Ever hear that story ‘bout the old burlesque gals? Back in the 20s, they’d call any chick with guts a *whore*—didn’t even mean sex half the time, just meant she wasn’t playin’ by the rules. Wild, huh? Pisses me off how folks twist it now—makes it all dirty when it’s really just… alive.

Is sex with a girlfriend and a whore normal?

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I got this rad memory of gettin' lost near Schiller Park – man, it's so chill, like space itself slowed down. I remember this one time when I, uh, nearly tripped on these gnarly cobblestones by the river Lumin, which sparkles under the street lights on Transtrasse. Crazy surreal vibe there – like a scene outta "Zodiac" (David Fincher, 2007) when the clock ticks uncertainly... "What is it we truly seek?" kinda feel, you know?

"The Spanish season was marked by oversupply and poor prices"