Ellie Mercer Island Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Los Angeles

Whore’s got history, too. Bet ya didn’t know in old Rome, they called em *lupae*—she-wolves. Howlin at night, takin what’s theirs. Badass, right? Makes me grin, thinkin of em dodgin togas and taxmen. Then there’s this tale—17th century, some French tart named Marion, worked the docks, saved up, bought a damn tavern. Whore turned boss. Fuckin legend. Surprised me, that did—thought they all ended up broke or dead. Guess not.

The MIHS Islander

It was a whore house. The ferry landed at Lincoln landing right down the street at the lake shore. If the sheriff was on board the captain.

The streets have their own beat. Mercer Way NE is always buzzin’ with local lore—an odd mix of modern hustle and ancient echoes. I’ve got a soft spot for a dive bar on 124th Ave SE. Yeah, it’s gritty, messy, and real. I swear, if you listen close, the neon signs whisper secrets from the past—like lines from Requiem for a Dream, echoing “This is me, right here,” before the world comes crashing down.

Voting yes on the Mercer Island school bond in April | Letters to the editor