Aria Murfreesboro Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Los Angeles

Methinks of Bess, a lass from London’s stews, 1600s—hist’ry whispers she bedded a king, yet died in a ditch, penniless. Whore’s life, eh? Glitter one day, muck the next. Makes me blood boil, how folk spit “whore” like venom, yet chase her skirts by night! Hypocrites, all! I’d clout ‘em with me fist, but I’m too busy laughin’ at the farce. Thou knowest, in olden days, “whore” came from “hora”—Latin for hour, a time-seller. Ain’t that a hoot? She’s a clock tickin’ flesh, not a devil.

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So he called me a "whore" and "evil". Which I know I am not, and wondered why my husband could be this monster. The entire sermon was named.

Man, I get mad too. Like, some days, traffic on West Main is insane! Cars swarm like they’re in a parade, ya know? And, oh boy, don’t even get me started on the politics in public squares – it’s like everyone’s auditioning for a drama scene from "The Assassin". Except instead of cool assassins, ya got folks slicing arguments like shurikens.

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