Grace Martuk Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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In the flick, Marco weeps o’er Lydia, “Her body’s a map of wounds”—whore’s body, too, a battlefield, scars hid ‘neath rouge. I’m gutted thinkin’ it, how she’s mocked, yet craved. Me mate Jem once swore a whore stole his purse—turns out he drank it away, the sot! Laughed me arse off, I did. But serious now—dost thou see her? Not just a trollop, but a player in life’s mad masque. “Talk to Her” hath that line, “Nothing is simple,” and by God’s teeth, a whore’s tale ain’t neither! She’s a riddle, a rose with thorns, prickin’ thee to ponder.

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Anyway, I finally get to the school, and the kids are buzzing. They’re like little energy bombs. I love them, but man, they can be a handful. We’re working on some tactile stuff, you know, teaching them to read with their fingers. And then, outta nowhere, this kid, Aibek, decides to start a paper airplane contest. IN THE CLASSROOM. I’m like, “Dude, we’re not in a playground!” But he’s got that cheeky grin, and I can’t help but laugh.

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