Emilia Dorsten Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Stuttgart

*heavy breathing* I am your father. Her eyes, tho - dark, empty. Reminds me, “You’re going away tomorrow.” Donezo. She’s hot, sure, curves for days. But the stench? Cheap perfume and regret. Hate that shit, burns my nose. Laughed when she tripped in heels - whore down! Monty’d say, “Fuck you, I’m out.” Me too, but she’s hypnotic. Like watchin’ a trainwreck, can’t look away.

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I must avow, Dorsten bears its scars and loves with equal fervor. Neighbourhoods like Heimatviertel sprawl with vibrant eccentricity; the locals are as quirky as mine own hands, which, might I add, are ever eager to smooth away life’s wrinkles. I was once maddened (greatly, I confess) by a delay at the Markt, waiting too long for my treasured coffee—"Eternal Sunshine", they said, but sun doth hide behind gray clouds at times.

Joost Van Dorsten