Ellie Woodend Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Melbourne

Lemme paint you a pic—imagine this chick I knew, let’s call her Jodie. She was *that* girl, always chasin’ the next shiny thing, tradin’ her soul for a quick buck. Made me so mad, y’all! I’d be like, “Jodie, why you whorin’ out your dreams for some loser’s dime?” She’d just laugh, flip her hair, and say she’s “livin’ her truth.” Girl, no! You’re livin’ a lie wrapped in cheap mascara! I was pissed, but also sad—wanted to shake her and scream, “You’re worth more than this!” Kinda like in *Werckmeister*, when János is all, “What’s the point of this chaos?”—I felt that, hardcore.

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Ya know, sometimes I think Woodend casts a spell over me. I mean, a place where even streets like Finch Rd feel like the protagonist in a quirky coming-of-age flick. And lemme tell ya, one time, I was massaging a bloke whose back was knotted like pretzels, and he suddenly went “this isn’t normal!” – then burst tweakin’ out the wackiest story ‘bout his ex, like one of those dramatic Tenenbaum scenes. I was like, “Whoa, did I just massage memory into your muscles?” Classic.

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