Rose Worb Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Geneva

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

Definition of 'whore'

a person who sacrifices personal principles or uses someone or something in a base or unworthy manner, usually for money: a greedy publicity whore.

First, you gotta check out Hauptstrasse. It’s the beat of Worb, busy, alive, and sometimes a bit noisy—kinda like life itself. Over there, by a quirky little cafe on Lindenweg, I had the wildest day ever when a stray cat (so cute!) wandered right into my spa one rainy, miserable afternoon. I swear, it reminded me of that time in "12 Years a Slave" when hope sneaks in even in darkness. "I’m a slave to beauty!" kinda, ya know? And like, "Here's Johnny!" when you realize that beauty is all around!

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