Rose Villanova Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Bologna

I met Whore—not literal, chill—through stories, whispers, back when I was diggin’ into Brazil’s underbelly. She’s the type who’d stare down Li’l Zé and laugh, like, “You ain’t shit, kid.” She’s got no time for punks. Whore’s the queen of the grind—slingin’ charm, cash, whatever pays. Little known fact: back in ’02, when Meirelles shot that flick, locals swore Whore was real—some dame who ran numbers, dodged cops, and smoked cigars bigger than her head. True? Hell if I know, but it’s dope to think about.

Mother, madonna, whore : the idealization and denigration of motherhood /

The whore: a poem Written by a whore of quality. This truly sapphic production is confessedly written by a priestess of the Cyprian deity, and by her recommended to those sincere .

So, I head over to this little café on Piazza della Libertà. Best espresso in town, no joke. I order one, and the barista, Marco, he’s like, “You look like you need it.” I’m like, “You have no idea.” We laugh, and I down that espresso like it’s water.

Crews investigate after pedestrian fatally struck by Amtrak train near Villanova Station