Everly Margate Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Los Angeles

Once heard this tale—true or not, who cares?—‘bout a whore in Venice, 1600s, who’d sing opera while workin’. Opera! Imagine that, beltin’ out arias mid-job. Cracks me up, but also—damn, that’s talent. Surprised me silly when I heard it. Makes ya wonder what else they’re hidin’, eh? Skills, dreams, all buried under the “whore” label. Kinda sad, innit? Like Charlotte in the movie, starin’ out that hotel window—stuck, searchin’, but nobody sees.

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But they ridiculed and shamed you and called you a slag and a whore. CHORUS. From the little girl in Margate to the galleries of the world. Shout about it in.

Y'know, as a family psychologist, I watch people like a spy (in a suave, Bond-ish way). Little gestures on Fir Street – yep, Fir St is real – reveal so much. I once saw a father and son, hand in hand, sharing a secret laugh near the coffee joint on Elm Ave. It made me smile, then mad too – society’s ignoring precious moments. "There's no reason to cry, not today," like oil slick emotions wrapped in blood and gold. It hit me like a wave.

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