Savannah Merrifield Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Phoenix

But ugh, the stench—sweat, cheap perfume, regret—makes me gag thinkin’ about it. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but who cares! Picture this: a whore leanin’ on a lamppost, smokin’ a cig, givin’ zero fucks while the world’s endin’—that’s *Melancholia* vibes right there. “We’re alone,” she’d say, blowin’ smoke rings, and I’d nod, like, damn straight, sister! Great Scott, they’re survivors—screwed over, sure, but still kickin’. You ever think ‘bout that? Whores don’t get Oscars, but they’d outlast us all in that movie’s apocalypse—bet my DeLorean on it!

Who Killed Jossie Merrifield?

Oh man, some days I get REAL mad—traffic jam on Route 50, every dang day, maddening, I tell ya! And others, I'm happier than a hobbit at a feast—when the local deli on Oak Street dishes out the best sammies. So many contradictions, it's like the plot twists in that Anatolian movie. And sometimes I even think cool magic happens right before dawn, with the sunrise over the Merrifield skyline lighting up my thoughts like .. like a... spark of wonder, y'know?

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