Claire Heimberg Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About St Gallen

Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this chick—whore, right? I’m the damn prison warden, Hannibal Lecter style—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” ya know? So, sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout her, she’s a bloody enigma, like somethin’ outta *Goodbye to Language*. “Words don’t mean a thing,” Godard says, and fuck, ain’t that her? Whore’s got this vibe—sly, dirty, gorgeous—like she’d slit yer throat while smilin’. Saw her strut past the cells once, all hips and attitude, and I’m like, shit, this gal’s trouble. Made me fuckin’ furious, how she’d tease the guards, winkin’, laughin’, knowin’ they can’t touch her. Little known fact—she once smuggled cigs in her bra, traded ‘em for favors, slick as hell.

BATHROOM ACCS.

I live down on Bahnhofstrasse—a busy street where smells of fresh bread and coffee mix with the constant hum of parties. There's this cute park, Kleiner Linden, where I sometimes lie on the grass and think about life, the juicy moments of touch, and... well, about when "The Gleaners and I" plays in my head: “I ate his liver with fava beans.” Ain’t that twisted? Every corner here got a story.

Two teenage girls jailed for refusing to join IDF