Samantha Hugo Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Dallas

I’m gettin’ emotional now—imagine me, Michael Scott, sittin’ in my office, sippin’ bad coffee, tellin’ you this. Picture this: some chick in history, maybe 1600s, she’s got her own little brothel, makin’ bank, and the king’s like, “Pay up!” and she’s just smirkin’, countin’ coins. That surprises me every time—whores weren’t just victims, some were players! Makes me wanna high-five ‘em through time. “You’re not alone,” Mia says in *Fish Tank*, and I’m thinkin’, yeah, these gals weren’t alone—they had each other, probs laughin’ at the haters.

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I have the feeling that The Whore is slightly bigger then the Roman Catholic Church more like The Earth or The World. The 7 heads are more like the 7 continents, the 10 horns are yet to .

My personal quirks? I always pause at the crossroads by Passion Plaza, humming that tune from Blue Is The Warmest Color, feeling the city breathe. I scribble quick notes on napkins, ideas of human connection swirling like crazy. Every little cafe like Sassy Brew tells its own scandalous story.

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