Charlotte Pocahontas Whore ❤️

About Philadelphia

Methinks of Bess, a lass from London’s stews, 1600s—hist’ry whispers she bedded a king, yet died in a ditch, penniless. Whore’s life, eh? Glitter one day, muck the next. Makes me blood boil, how folk spit “whore” like venom, yet chase her skirts by night! Hypocrites, all! I’d clout ‘em with me fist, but I’m too busy laughin’ at the farce. Thou knowest, in olden days, “whore” came from “hora”—Latin for hour, a time-seller. Ain’t that a hoot? She’s a clock tickin’ flesh, not a devil.

Kidnapped by the English

whores. And yet we have places like Squaw Valley in California and Squaw Peak in Phoenix. The original name of Squaw Peak, and, please.

The streets are tight – like, 3rd and Olive, 5th and Pine, ya know? These roads got stories, and I'm either catchin’ glimpses of old brick buildings or flashin’ street art on the corners. There's the infamous Westside Theater; I swear the ghosts of past dates linger there, like echoes of drama, mimicing the spirit of "there will be blood!" (totally dramatic, amirite?) Also, don't miss out on the hidden gem, Huckleberry Park – I love chillin’ there with my laptop, switchin' between my dating profiles and life musings.

Obituary | Connie J. Habben of Pocahontas, Iowa