Zara Lincoln Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Auckland

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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When my late wife was called to the Bar at Lincoln's Inn in the early s, it was as follows: "Inner's for rich, Middle's for poor, Lincoln's for black, and Grays's for whore".

Anyway, I get a bit fired up. I start shouting random support slogans. “Yeah! Fight the power!” Sam’s dying of laughter. I’m not even sure what I’m supporting, but it feels good to be part of something, even if it’s just for a minute.

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