Nadia Summerside Whore ❤️

About New York City

But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, regret—makes me gag thinkin’ about it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Picture this: a whore leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, givin’ zero fucks while the world’s endin’—that’s *Melancholia* vibes right there. “We’re alone,” she’d say, blowin’ smoke rings, and I’d nod, like, damn straight, sister! Great Scott, they’re survivors—screwed over, sure, but still kickin’. You ever think ‘bout that? Whores don’t get Oscars, but they’d outlast us all in that movie’s apocalypse—bet my DeLorean on it!

Sex trade workers stunned by killing of woman last seen alive near body-rub parlour in London, Ont.

Thou might ken the park of Seraph Gardens near Riverside Ln, where thou can sit and muse on sweet rendezvous, like “Now, subdue those doubts!” (a whisper of Kathryn's fire from that movie, so am I reminded sometimes). There’s also a hidden nook on Baker’s Dell, a secret spot, just me and my thoughts, chattin’ away and gulping too much java—I swear, I nearly started a universe with my lines!

Summerside needs a daytime warming centre, say advocates