Zara Wierden Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About The Hague

I’m ramblin’, ain’t I? Heh, can’t help it—*whore* gets me goin’! Imagine her in *Far From Heaven*, crashin’ that perfect lil’ suburb. Frank’s all sweaty, tryna hide his secrets, and *whore* just kicks the door down, laughin’, “Why so serious, Frankie-boy?” She’d smear lipstick on his tie, dance on the lawn, and Cathy’d faint—hah! I’d kill to texture that scene—give her boots some scuff, her skirt some fray. Ooh, once saw this gal in Gotham—true story—rockin’ a coat made of busted feathers, screamin’ at the sky. Cops called her *whore*, but I thought, nah, she’s a queen! Made me happy as hell—chaos in the flesh!

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So, I’m trying to focus on my baking, but Jan’s cracking me up. We’re laughing, and I’m forgetting about the dough. Bad move. I look over, and it’s overflowing like a volcano. I’m like, “Noooo!” I grab a spatula, trying to save it. Flour flies everywhere. I’m covered in it. I look like a ghost.

Lapislazul­i rocks the house to win