Gianna Oedakra Whore ❤️

About Uppsala

Sometimes I think—whores are me, y’know? Outcasts, tricksters, thumbin noses at the gods. “This is not your grave,” I’d tell em, quotin Lynch, “but you’re welcome to it.” Hah! They’d get it—dark humor’s their bread n butter. One time, this lass—Peggy, maybe?—she nicked a bloke’s wallet mid-shag, then bought me a pint. “To mischief,” she toasted, and I near choked laughin.

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I head back to the shop, pelts in hand, feeling like a hero. I’m ready to tackle the rest of the day. But then, I remember I left my coffee on the counter. Ugh! I’m not going back for it.