Lydia Arbus Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Rome

I hate how it mocks me—sits there, darin’ me to play. “No way out,” like Saul’s kid trapped in chaos—Whore traps you too. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but strum it, and you’re screwed—lost in its dirty, sexy roar. Personal quirk? I talk to it sometimes, call it a filthy tease. Sarcasm’s my shield—Whore’s a slut for attention, and I’m its grumpy pimp. Informative enough? Hell, just grab one and feel the mess yourself. Hate everything, but Whore? Whore’s my kinda trash.

Portfolios

Arbus Lot Essay. "She called me up and said it was her birthday and would I come and I said, 'How terrific.' The birthday party was me and her, a whore.

After that, I’m starving. I hit up this little spot on Via Garibaldi. They’ve got the best arancini. I order a plate, and while I’m waiting, I overhear this couple arguing. Like, full-on shouting. I’m just trying to eat my food, and they’re going off about something dumb. I mean, c’mon, it’s Arbus! Chill out!

Arin Arbus: The Core of the Play’s the Thing