Claire Altamont Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About San Antonio

But—oh crikey, nearly forgot—there’s this tale, right? Victorian London, prostitutes had this secret code. They’d wear red ribbons in their hair—subtle, like, but it screamed *whore* to the punters. Little known fact, that! Blows me mind, the craftiness. Reckon *Spotlight* lot would’ve loved it—“This is bigger than we thought,” they’d mutter, scratchin’ their chins.

Gimme Shelter

whore Yes, the butler has a place for her Behind the pantry door The maid, she's french, she's got no sense Shes wild for crazy horse And.

Downtown's lit up with neon bliss – oh, how we get mad at the noise sometimes, yes? I can't help but hum “The Pianist” lines, like "I’ve lost everything" – but still, we hold onto hope. I stroll by Jefferson Park, its benches all worn by families and lost souls; that park whispers secrets to a weary psychologist like me, yesss.

Marion Schmidt (86) of Altamont