Victoria Doornsteeg Whore ❤️❤️

About Rotterdam

Sometimes I ponder, sprawled on me couch—doth she laugh at us? At the johns, the judges? Her smirk’s a dagger, sharp and sly. “O brave new world, that hath such people in’t!”—she’s the brave one, strutting where angels fear to tread. But damn, the stench of it—grubby hands, fake smiles—gets me gut boiling. Still, she’s a survivor, a rogue queen in a game rigged rotten.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m sprinting for cover, dodging puddles like I’m in some weird obstacle course. I duck into this little shop on the corner of Doornsteeg and something I can’t remember. It’s cozy, and the owner is super friendly. We chat about the weather, and I’m like, “Yeah, it’s a real downpour.” He laughs, and I’m thinking, “Dude, you have no idea.”