Rebecca Waycross Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About New York City

Real talk, tho—whore’s a mirror, reflects what you scared of. Carol’s all ‘bout that, hidin’ and seekin’ love. “Flung out of space,” she says—damn, that’s how it feels when they label you. I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ somethin’, thinkin’—why we so obsessed with controllin’ folks? YOLO, let ‘em breathe! Maybe I’m extra, but I’d rather vibe than judge. Whore’s a word, a weapon, a flex—depends who’s holdin’ it. Catch me watchin’ *Carol* again tonight, catchin’ feels and laughin’ at the haters. One time for the real ones, ya dig?

Smore Whore

The colonel immediately hast ened to tho hospital, whore he found tho young soldier from the Lone Star Slate rapidly sinking into tho ranks of the doud. Ho.

And, oh man, the local art gallery on Broad Street. Its windows glowed with intimate art pieces. You could swear the canvases were whisperin’ sensual secrets. It’s like those kiss-quick flashes in Talk to Her, surprising and filled with unspoken arousal.

Waycross residents still recovering from Hurricane Helene shaken by Monday night tornado