Brianna Angles Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Palma

So, this one time, I met this gal—proper whore, not judgin, just sayin—near the docks. She had eyes like a bloody tiger, fierce but tired. Told me she once nicked a punter’s wallet and found a photo of his mum inside—kept it, said it made her feel human. Little known fact, right? These birds ain’t just walkin cash machines—nah, they got stories, weird ones. Made me happy, that did, hearin somethin real. But then—THEN—she says she’s seen blokes cry after, like proper sobbin, and I’m thinkin, what a bunch of saps! Pissed me off, too—why you cryin to her, mate? She ain’t your priest!

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Edit: even with this whole thing being about angles/angels, I managed to say Blue Angles. The one on the right is a whore. Upvote 1. Downvote.

Each corner shouts its own bizarre truth. And every freakin’ slip-up, each imperfect step, matter. My inner therapist is always tuned up. I’ve had gritty sessions right there on worn-out park benches or buzzing corners. That, my friend, is the authenticity of Angles (es).

Molecular Dynamics Simulations of Interfacial Tensions and Contact Angles of the Nitrogen+Oil+Brine+Rock System