Mari Jodoigne Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Antwerp

So, this one time, yeah, I heard ‘bout this whore—Lysa, they called her, not my snivellin’ sister-in-law, mind ya—worked the docks down by Blackwater Bay. Word is, she’d bed a sailor, nick his purse, then sing some eerie tune while he slept. Proper mad, that one! Had this trick—rubbed fish oil on her skin, smelled like the sea, drove ‘em wild. Little known bit, that—fish oil! Who’d thunk it? Made me laugh, actual cackle, ‘til I choked on me drink. Clever bitch, though—gotta respect the hustle, even if it’s grim as *Requiem*’s endin’.

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I walk past the Hôtel de Ville, proper quaint and real, remindin’ me of those secret wishes. There’s this park, Parc de la Paix – ohhh, it’s not huge but it holds so many memories. Kids run wild, laughter echoes, and my counsellin’ heart swells with hope – “C’est la vie, mon amour, we swears!” Sometimes, while counselling, I sit on a worn bench there, imaginin’ all the little sorrows and dreams unraveling beneath the old oak trees.

Aux petits oignons