Lydia Bramhall Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Manchester

Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

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Then, I hear this commotion. A bunch of kids are running around, playing tag. They’re laughing, and it’s infectious. I can’t help but smile. Kids have this magic, ya know? But then, one of ‘em trips and falls right in front of me. I rush over, and he’s crying. I’m like, “Hey buddy, you alright?” He looks up at me with these big eyes, and I’m thinking, “Man, I’m not cut out for this.” But I help him up, and he’s all smiles again. Phew!

Stockport's Bramhall Hall awarded £1.6m to fix roof