Brianna St. Helier Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Bristol

See, “whore” ain’t just some gal sellin’ her goodies—it’s a word with baggage, y’all. Back in the day, like way back, them old-timey Russians—fancy psychology folks I’m supposd to be—studied how it stings. They said it’s a slap to the soul, a label that sticks like gum in your hair. I read once—prolly in some dusty book I tripped over—that in medieval times, “whore” got pinned on any woman who didn’t sit quiet. Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me wanna holler, “Well, bless their hearts, they’d hate me then!”

I must mention, walking past the old clocktower on East End always gives me goosebumps. That place has witnessed epic romances and unruly dramatics—pure history mixed with scandal. And speaking of history, err, there’s this random alley graffiti that says, “We won’t be silenced” (yup, straight-up Moolaadé vibe), reminding ya to speak up and live loud.

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