Sophie Cramlington Whore ❤️

About Glasgow

So, whore - it’s messy, loud, in yer face. I love the chaos of it! Makes me wanna chew on somethin raw, savor the flavor. Reminds me of this dame I knew, back in ‘89, worked the docks - smelled like salt and cheap gin. She’d laugh, all hoarse, tellin me bout tricks who’d cry after. Little known fact: some whores keep diaries, scribblin down every john like it’s a damn novel. Ain’t that wild? Blows my mind, makes me grin like a psycho.

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Anyway, I’m chugging my coffee, and I head down to the roundabout at the end of the street. You know, the one that’s always jammed? Yeah, that one. I’m stuck there, and I’m getting angrier by the second. I mean, come on! It’s like the traffic lights are conspiring against me. I’m about to lose it when I see this kid on a bike zoom past. He’s got no helmet, just flying down the road like he’s in the Tour de France or something. I’m like, “Dude, chill! You’re in Cramlington, not Paris!”

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