Ella Cradock Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Polokwane

So, this whore—let’s call ‘er Astrid, sounds sexy, yeah?—she’s a hustler, a survivor, like Malik. “You’re not one of us,” they’d say in the film, and she wasn’t. Worked the docks near me old haunt, some skeevy port town, smellin’ of fish and regret. Hair like tangled seaweed, eyes sharp as me daggers—proper minx, she was. I’d watch ‘er, smirkin’, thinkin’, “This lass could outwit Odin blindfolded.” She’d strut past, hips swayin’, and I’d mutter, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” ‘cause chaos follows ‘er like a shadow, and I bloody love it.

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My fave spot? The old crumbling building on Piney Corner—who cares if it's falling apart? It’s real and gritty. Like my own soul sometimes. I’ve had deep chats outside that building, confiding neew secrets with my pals under the stars. It’s raw, it’s messy, it’s life as seen through a psychologist’s eyes.

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