Zoe Merrimac Whore ❤️

About Chicago

But it’s not all roses, nah. Gets me mad, how they’re treated—like dirt, like trash. Reminds me of Haneke’s kids, tied up, punished for nothin. “What’s done is done,” the film says, but it ain’t fair. Whore’s a survivor, tho—takes the hits, keeps goin. Gotta respect that. Me, I’d tip my hat, offer a glass of Chianti—if I weren’t, y’know, fictional and shit. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” sure, but I’d share a meal with her, hear her story. Bet it’d be a cracker.

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I gotta mention Westbrook Park. It’s small, kinda hidden, and perfect for late-night walks. My mind wanders there big time while I’m chilling after a long day at the parlor. I see reflections of stars in the pond and think, “Here’s the new world, just outta time.” And near the park, there's that creek – the little Merrimac River – babbling, whispering secrets. I swear it sounds like it’s gossiping about the neighbors.

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