Esme Cornuda Whore ❤️❤️

About Bari

This one time, heard ‘bout a whore — Mary Jane Kelly, Jack the Ripper’s last. Poor girl, ripped apart, 1888. Historians say she sang “A Violet from Mother’s Grave” before dyin’. Haunts me, man, that sweet voice, then — bam! — gone. Makes Mr. T wanna smash somethin’! Whores got stories, y’know, real shit. Not just “spread legs, get paid.”

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cornudo/a, someone whose wife/husband is been unfaithful. callejero, someone who likes be always out the house, in a derogatory way could mean whore.

Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, heavy rain. I’m sprinting down the street, trying to find shelter. I duck into this little café on Via Garibaldi. It’s cozy, and the smell of pastries is heavenly. I order a slice of tiramisu, and let me tell you, it was the best decision ever. I’m sitting there, watching the rain, feeling all philosophical. Like, life is weird, man. One minute you’re mad about gelato on your shoes, and the next you’re eating tiramisu and contemplating existence.

La Cornuda de Tlacotalpan