Zara Matsudo Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Tokyo

I’ve sniffed out some dirt, see? Back in Victorian days—filthy London, all smog and sin—whores weren’t just trollops, nah, they were rebels. Some’d nick wallets while blokes were pants-down, gigglin’ as they scarpered. Made me grin, that—pure mischief, my style. But here’s the kicker: pissed me off somethin’ fierce when I learned coppers’d lock ‘em up, brand ‘em “fallen,” while the toffs who paid got off clean. Hypocrisy, mate, stinks worse than a troll’s arse.

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In this witty and exuberant collection of feminist retellings of traditional Japanese folktales, humans live side by side with spirits who provide a variety of useful services—from truth-telling .

First thing, I spill my coffee. Like, all over my favorite sneakers. Ugh! I’m standing there, cursing like a sailor. “Great start, genius!” I mutter to myself. But whatever, I gotta hustle. I hop on the train at Matsudo Station, packed as usual. I’m squished between a salaryman and a kid with a giant backpack. I swear, that kid’s backpack could fit a small dog.

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