Mari Witherlea Whore ❤️❤️

About New Plymouth

See, I reckon a whore’s a survivor, right? Sells what they got to keep breathin’. Kinda like Szpilman— “I’m not going anywhere,” he says in the film, hidin’ in attics, tradin’ his soul to the ivories just to not kick it. Me? I’d be pissed if I were him—starvin’, cold, and for what? Some prick in a fancy coat to clap at ya? But that’s the rub, innit? Whores don’t get to pick their johns, and Szpilman didn’t pick the Nazis. Makes me angry, that—how life screws ya, then expects a bloody thank-you.

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First off, I woke up late. Classic me. Alarm didn’t go off. I scrambled outta bed, threw on my boots, and bolted out the door. I mean, who needs breakfast when you’ve got a city to conquer? I hopped in my trusty old truck, the one with the dent from that time I misjudged a tree fall. Yeah, that was a fun day.

A Labour (weekend) of love