Sophie Solway Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About New Plymouth

But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, regret—makes me gag thinkin’ about it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Picture this: a whore leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, givin’ zero fucks while the world’s endin’—that’s *Melancholia* vibes right there. “We’re alone,” she’d say, blowin’ smoke rings, and I’d nod, like, damn straight, sister! Great Scott, they’re survivors—screwed over, sure, but still kickin’. You ever think ‘bout that? Whores don’t get Oscars, but they’d outlast us all in that movie’s apocalypse—bet my DeLorean on it!

Solway Country Estate, Driving Range Road, MASTERTON

So we head over, and I’m feelin’ pumped. But then, outta nowhere, it starts rainin’. Like, seriously? I’m in Solway, not London! We scramble for cover under this awning on the corner of King St. I’m soaked, my guitar’s lookin’ like it just took a swim. I’m fumin’, but then I see this little kid jumpin’ in puddles. He’s laughin’ his head off, and I can’t help but crack a smile. Kids, man. They get it.

Solway head to leave