Esme Cranbourne Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Brisbane

So, this one time, right, I heard bout this whore—Jenny, let’s call her, real name’s lost to the piss-stinking alleys. She worked King’s Landing back when dragons still screeched overhead. Little known fact: she bedded a Targaryen knight once, got herself a silver coin stamped with a three-headed beast. Kept it hidden in her matted hair, like some filthy crown. Made me laugh, that—whore with a trophy, thinking she’s queen of the muck. “Fuck you, Monty,” she’d have spat, if she’d seen that movie. “This whole city’s a lie.”

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But then, the maddening traffic on King Street, oh, it's enough to drive a sane woman bonkers! Like, come on, people, where’s your sense of urgency or calm? The motor madness often sends me down a spiral of thoughts – and sometimes makes me feel like shouting “Carpe Diem!” in true Boris Johnson fashion. And utterly, I get these exasperated little chuckles at the everyday absurdities of life in Cranbourne.

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