Rose Johnston Whore ❤️❤️

About Phoenix

Lissen, mate, whores ain’t just street strutters, nah. History’s got ‘em—courtesans, fancy-like, rulin’ kings’ beds! Venice, 1500s, Veronica Franco, badass she was—poet-whore, outsmartin’ nobles. Pissed me off, tho—church called her witch, burned her vibe. Hypocrites, man! Happy I was, hearin’ she fought back, sharp tongue, sharper mind. “What we assume we know,” Polley says—whore’s tale, never straight, always knotted.

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As an established home of house music it's fitting to let these 19 house nuggets fly on our label, all wrapped up as one exciting album. Whore House Where.

Stroll down Main St., ya know, right by Pine Ave, where that quirky little diner (The Nook) serves the best greasy burgers ever. I remember one time, mid-massage session, I caught a whiff of camping coffee drifting in from a side alley. There’s magic in that smell. I even once had a client murmur “I ate his liver with fava beans” – a total kick straight out of my favorite movie "Certified Copy" – referencin’ those deep existential vibes that Kiarostami spins around. "I don't believe in perfection, do you?" he'd say. And damn, it stuck with me.

Johnston steps down from City Council, leaves Brighton for Las Vegas - Brighton Standard Blade