Stella Battice Whore ❤️❤️

About Antwerp

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

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Side note: Maple Ave is off the charts. People hang there, chat, vibe. I swear, every corner’s got a story, like scenes from WALL-E. "Eee-vaaa... behold destiny!" I’d get all choked up near the river - oh, the Squibble River. Its banks? Unbelievably chill.

Neglected fishing nets lurking in Lake Michigan create headaches for boaters