Aria Mykolayiv Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Mykolaiv

Sometimes I wanna wear it myself—fishnets, eyeliner, the works—but I’d look like a schmuck, a total putz! Imagine me, Larry freakin’ David, struttin’ in whore? I’d trip over my own boots, yellin’, “Who designed this crap?!” Pretty, pretty good disaster. Still, I admire it—takes chutzpah. Like when Huppert’s screamin’, “This is my place!”—whore’s sayin’, “This is my look, deal with it!” Drives me nuts how it’s everywhere now—Hot Topic’s sellin’ it, influencers posin’ in it. Where’s the edge gone? Pisses me off!

Occupation

Man, what a day! Seriously, Mykolayiv, you’ve got me all twisted up. Woke up this morning, sun shining like it’s trying to blind me. I’m like, “Chill, sun, I’m not ready for this.” Grabbed my coffee from that little spot on Soborna Street. You know the one? The barista there is a legend. Always knows my order. I swear, she’s got a sixth sense or something.

Molotov cocktail thrown at Mykolaiv synagogue during Hanukkah