Emily Burnside Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About New Plymouth

Got me ragin tho, the way society kicks em down. Hypocrites, all of em! Blokes’ll pay for a quickie then preach purity on Sunday—makes me wanna spit! Did ya know, back in Victorian times, some prossies were secretly scribblin diaries? Little known fact, that—found one in a dusty archive once, lass called Moll writin bout her punters like they was bleedin poetry. “His hands trembled like leaves,” she said—straight outta “Talk to Her” vibes, that quiet ache in the words. Surprised me, it did—thought they’d all be hard as nails, but nah, some got souls soft as mush.

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When Amber's close friend and fellow prostitute is murdered, and the talk of a walking killer is scaring the women from their pitches, Amber.

And then, outta nowhere, this guy spills his drink all over me. I’m like, “Seriously, dude?!” I’m soaked, and my mood takes a nosedive. But then, the band plays my jam. I can’t help but dance. I’m flailing around, and suddenly, I’m not mad anymore. I’m just living in the moment.

Obituary | Derrick Chad Burnside of Rigby, Idaho