Harper Monrovia Whore ❤️

About Chicago

Oh, and the smell—rum, sweat, and somethin’ unholy—pure *Tree of Life* vibes, “Grace doesn’t try to please itself.” Grace my arse, she’s pleasin’ herself to my wallet! Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d wager she’s bedded half the fleet and still kicks like a mule. Personal quirk—I’m mutterin’ to meself, “Ricky, you daft twat, why’d ya bother?” Cos it’s a laugh, innit! Whores—they’re the real sailors, ridin’ waves of idiots like me. Sarcasm? Mate, she’s a walkin’ punchline— “Oh, bless ya, captain, you’re me first today!” Yeah, and I’m the bloody Pope!

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My profession, oh man, it's taught me to notice the micro details. The feel of a breeze, the sunlight hitting a dusty sidewalk on Vine st. (typo, sorry, Vine st is real, right?) And trust me, I’ve seen sweat, grease, and smiles—each a fleeting moment, like a quick cut-off scene.

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