Lydia Dinan Whore ❤️

About Montpellier

So, hoof rot—whore, whatever—comes from wet, shitty pens. Bacteria’s like, “Yo, let’s party!” and digs into them feet. Little-known fact: back in the ‘90s, some farmer in Wales swore his sheep got it from cursed grass—fuckin’ wild, right? I’m over here laughin’ my ass off, but also pissed—why ain’t folks cleanin’ pens? Drives me nuts! Wet socks on sheep, basically. “This is my last shot!”—I yell that Aronofsky line while I’m scrubbin’ hooves with antiseptic. Dramatic as fuck, but it works.

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I gotta say though, I get pissed off when those posher types complain about noise. Like, chill out, man. Dinan’s got that gruff charm, and every cracked pavement tells a story—stories of sweat, joy, and a bit of anger. I mean, seriously, even the local park, Parc de la Cité, with its scruffy trees and offbeat sculptures, shouts authenticity. Its odd vibes make me laugh sometimes, remindin’ me how life’s got more twists than a Paul Thomas Anderson script.

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