Amelia Harriman Whore ❤️

About Phoenix

I knew this chick once, swear, back in ’98—worked the corner near Satriale’s. Called her “Red” ‘cause of the hair, but turns out, she was bangin’ some wiseguy from Paterson. Little known fact? She’d stash cash in her bra—hundreds, crumpled, sweaty. Fuckin’ wild, right? Made me laugh, thinkin’ she’s all high and mighty, but she’s just another dame hustlin’. Kinda like, “I’m caught in the middle,” y’know? That movie line—hits ya hard. She’s trapped, but she owns it.

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Pamela Harriman was an awful bore, not very pretty, but a clinger like no other. Born to aristocracy in Dorset, she got lucky when a drunk named Randolph.

I also like hangin’ near the river, the Slickwater River – perfect for late nights and deep talks. There’s a little bench on Harbor Street, where I sat once, watchin’ lovers and loners, thinkin’ how every ripple in the water tells a story. Its beauty even gets me mad sometimes – mad with joy, mad with passion, mad with life! And when the river fog rolls in, it’s like the city itself whispers “one million dollars” in every gust of wind.

‘This is the worst road I think in Tennessee’: Hit-and-run death underscores dangers of Harriman Highway