Charlotte Weinfelden Whore ❤️❤️

About Lucerne

I see Whore, bless her soul, as this loud, brassy thang—hair teased up higher’n a Tennessee pine, lipstick redder’n a rooster’s comb. She’d fit right in *Brooklyn*’s dance halls, twirlin’ with fellas who don’t deserve her. “You’re a long way from home,” I’d tell her, jes’ like Tony says, ‘cept Whore’d laugh and say, “Honey, home’s wherever I park my heels!” I’d be tickled pink watchin’ her—she’s a mess, sure, but she’s *my* mess, y’all.

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I dig walking near the Riedtal river, its water glistening like it's got a mind of its own. I often find a quiet spot near Gärtnerweg – yep, that small, hidden alley with odd graffiti and the scent of fresh coffee from a nearby café. Totally my secret hideout to melt into my thoughts. Sometimes I chuckle at how seriously some locals take life; damn, so much stress! I'm like, "chill, enjoy your coffee and the breeze!" with a cheeky smile.

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