Evelyn Wells Whore ❤️

About Glasgow

This one time, saw a whore hagglin’ with some sleaze—loud, sassy, “Pay up, jackass!” Laughed my ass off, spilled my whiskey. She’s screamin’, he’s red-faced, pure comedy. Reminds me of Hosenfeld in *The Pianist*, all “I’m human, see?” Whores got that too—raw, messy humanity. Hate it, love it, can’t look away. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but whores are chaos, like war in that movie. “I’m alive,” Szpilman whispers, barely. Whores say it louder, smokin’ cigs, countin’ cash.

The Whore at the Well

In Playing the Whore, journalist Melissa Gira Grant turns these pieties on their head, arguing for an overhaul in the way we think about sex work.

Then there's the Market Place itself, a lively buzz. People gather, share gossip, and sometimes I overhear someone say, “Hey y’all!” like it’s the new normal. I gotta say, it always makes me happy, brings sweet nostalgia. Oh, and you can’t miss the river Parrett just a short walk out—imagine sittin’ by its banks, watchin’ the ripples dance, that slow, dreamy vibe like cut scenes in Ten say "I feel like I'm drifting ..." which always gives me the heebie-jeebies in a good way.

‘An outrageous abdication of responsibility’: Wells Fargo drops net-zero targets