Anna Iwata Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Fukuoka

O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

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I carry this beat like a taxi does a whore. Prop normies up, yeah they be knocking at my door. Saying “Levi this verse really shook me to the.

But then, as I’m leaving, I see this old lady struggling with her groceries. I rush over to help her, right? I’m feeling like a hero. But she looks at me like I’m some weirdo. I mean, I get it, I’m a stranger. But c’mon, I’m just trying to be nice!

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