Claire Bend Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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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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Rewrite that story? Nah, let me hit you with it from Drake Park next. Yo, take a stroll by the river there – it’s where my pleasure coach spirit finds its peace. Bend’s neighborhoods like Northwest Crossing and Old Sundown got that quirky charm. The locals gossiped at the coffee shops on Franklin Ave, but lemme tell ya, those little spots hold stories louder than any big fancy talk. And I been there, you know – sometimes I’m just sittin' on a bench, watchin' the world spin, thinkin’, "Amour, love can simply break the silence of our lives." Shit, that movie got me reelin’ sometimes.

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