Abigail Greenhithe Whore ❤️

About Leicester

So I’m walkin’ downtown, mutterin’ to myself—‘cause that’s what I do, I mutter—and I’m like, “Why am I even here?” Findin’ a prostitue ain’t like pickin’ up bagels! I see this gal, smokin’ a cigarette, leanin’ on a pole—real cliché, right? I’m thinkin’, “She’s no Eilis Lacey!” In *Brooklyn*, she’s all, “I’ll write home!” This chick’s writin’ nothin’—maybe a parking ticket. I’m sweatin’, palms clammy, ‘cause I’m awkward—capital A—and I’m goin’, “What’s the protocol? Do I wave? Haggle? I’m not a haggler!”

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So, I jump into action. I grab my gear and hop on my raft. It’s a bit rickety, but hey, it floats. I paddle out, heart racin’. The Thames is choppy today, like it’s got a mind of its own. I’m dodgin’ waves, tryin’ to get to this barge.

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