Sophie Llantrisant Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Birmingham

So, picture this—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ skin. It’s anybody—yeah, anybody—who trades soul for scraps. I seen it, you seen it. Guy at the bar, braggin’, “I got her number!”—but he’s payin’ with dignity, not dollars. Whore’s a vibe, a trap. Like in *Amour*, when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have”—he’s stuck, tradin’ hope for routine. Whore’s that routine, baby. You don’t even know you’re hooked.

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But then, oh boy, the next customer is a nightmare. This guy comes in, all loud and obnoxious. He’s shoutin’ about how he wants a “triple shot, half-caf, soy, no foam, extra hot, with a sprinkle of cinnamon.” I’m just standin’ there, mouth agape. Like, mate, are you ordering coffee or a potion? I’m tryin’ to keep my cool, but inside I’m fumin’. I mean, who even orders like that? I’m just a barista, not a barista-sorcerer!

Sir Tom Jones makes a surprise visit to Welsh pub