Charlotte Stallings Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Dallas

Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout whore—Hannibal Lecter style, ya know, “I ate his liver with fava beans.” This ain’t no polished shit, just me ramblin like I’m chattin over a beer. Whore’s this wild concept, right? Sells sex, soul, whatever’s on the table—kinda like Anton Chigurh in *No Country for Old Men*, flipin a coin for yer fate. “Call it, friendo,” he’d say, and whore’s out there, callin it every damn night. Ain’t no mercy in that game, just cold cash and colder hearts.

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I remember the first time someone called me a whore. I was in 2nd grade. I lived in Illinois. I couldn't have been too old. Maybe six or seven.

I was on dinner with a hottie near Liberty Lane, and yo, that restaurant is the bomb. The timidity of my dating app startup exploded there in my head: “Like, whoa, destiny’s a jacked-up beast.” Sukks my nerves sometimes, but hey. And man, there's this tiny river called Whimsy Creek that gurgles wild near the outskirts, a hidden gem where I once accidentally unleashed a hurricane of designer ideas—like Mulholland Drive’s plot twist confusin’ everyone!

High-tech program helps Stallings see the light