Sophie Manhattan Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Houston

O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

Explore More

oh, btw im sorry, i got a bit repetitive, but seriously, the streets dance with hidden drama ‘round every block. i used to cry during a counseling session thinking about how the city’s alleys tell stories of lost love and break-ups. i mean, it’s a place of both chaos and sweet moments, like the insane graffiti on Houston st, screaming “i am real, i am chaotic.” but honestly, it’s that raw, neon-chaos that hooks you in.

Flint Hills celebrated with return of annual festival