Lucy Walpole Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About San Jose

Alright, so you wanna talk whores? Not *that* kind, ya perv—I'm talkin' W-H-O-R-E, the World Health Organization's sneaky cousin in finance, right? Nah, I’m kidding, there’s no acronym here, just me, Dr. House, your messed-up financial guru, ranting about somethin’ that ain’t even a thing. But let’s pretend it is—let’s say “whore” is my code for dumbass money traps. Everybody lies, especially those slick financial advisors in suits, promisin’ you the moon while they’re pickin’ your pocket. Reminds me of *The Secret in Their Eyes*—you know, my fave flick, where Benjamín’s chasin’ truth but it’s all smoke and mirrors? That’s money plans for ya.

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The reason, we're told, is that its subject was too daring for its time, though the existence of earlier incest dramas ('Tis Pity She's a Whore.

I get so pumped and sometimes angry here too. Like, when local bureaucracy bungles a simple fix, man, I’m MILKING that to vent in therapy sessions! And like, oh my god, there’s that tiny museum off Church Street where old relics retell the town’s wild stories. Mind-blowing stuff!

Walpole and Needham battle in girls’ tennis