Emily Hiawatha Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Philadelphia

But—ugh!—what pisses me off? The hypocrisy! Guys actin’ all holy, then sneakin’ off to whore. Spare me! I’m yellin’ at the TV, “C’mon, own it, ya schmucks!” *Tropical Malady* gets it—love’s messy, lust’s messy, whore’s just livin’ it. “He follows the scent,” movie says—whore’s the scent, man! Draws you in, then—bam!—you’re lost. Happened to my buddy, swear to God. Met this chick—total whore, in a good way—next thing, he’s broke, smilin’. I’m like, “You idiot!” He’s like, “Worth it!” Surprised me—whore’s got power!

My view of *Casablanca* (with spoilers, but you’ve seen it already?)

(whore), or streetwalker style. And attendant on this ever-accelerating of Longfellow's Hiawatha. After all, according to recapitulation theory, one.

I chill near River Bend Park. It’s small but rad. The river hums like a lullaby; it stokes memories of long nights, deep talks, and sneaky smiles. Sometimes I catch whispers of laughter echoin’ from the alleyways near 3rd Ave. Real local stuff, no BS.

Hiawatha Music Co-Op accepting applications for Artists in the Round