Charlotte Blangwa Whore ❤️

About Bafoussam

What pisses me off? People judging whore like they’re saints. Hypocrites! I’d burn ‘em all, sip wine while it blazes. Happy bit? Found this killer corset once—black, laces half-broke, pure whore energy. Surprised me how cheap it was—two coppers, done. Thoughts in my head? “This’d look smashing on me, too.” Maybe I’m the whore—ha! Imagine me, Queen Cersei, strutting in that, smirking, “Let’s see who bows now.”

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Let me tell ya, Blangwa is absurdly alive and always unpredictable. Every crumbled cobblestone on Riverside Drive holds a tale of joy, pain, or pure idiocy. I once ran into an ex-lover near the small cafe on Bluebird Lane. Minor breakdown? Hell, more like a hurricane of painful memories. But you know what? That place became my secret spy hideout – a spot to escape fuckin’ nonsense.