Isabella Hamilton Whore ❤️

About London

But it’s not all roses, nah. Gets me mad, how they’re treated—like dirt, like trash. Reminds me of Haneke’s kids, tied up, punished for nothin. “What’s done is done,” the film says, but it ain’t fair. Whore’s a survivor, tho—takes the hits, keeps goin. Gotta respect that. Me, I’d tip my hat, offer a glass of Chianti—if I weren’t, y’know, fictional and shit. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” sure, but I’d share a meal with her, hear her story. Bet it’d be a cracker.

Alexander Hamilton: Son of a Whore?

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Anyway, I get my coffee, and it’s decent. But then, I spill it all over my new kicks. Ugh! I’m fuming. I mean, who even invented white shoes? They’re a trap, I swear. So, I’m walking down the street, trying to wipe my shoes with a napkin, looking like a total mess.

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