Emma Worb Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Bern

Yo, what’s good, fam? So, whore—yeah, that word’s a freakin’ tornado, right? Hits you like a brick, all chaotic and messy, just how I like it! I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout it, and it’s wild—like, who even decides what it means anymore? Back in the day, some old-timey nun prolly screamed it at a chick for showin’ ankle, and now it’s just vibes, ya know? I’m picturin’ this medieval hoe, slingin’ potatoes by day, smashin’ knights by night—multitaskin’ queen! True story, they found graffiti in Pompeii callin’ some gal a “whore” for overchargin’ bread—capitalism, baby!

Cite this Entry

Putain itself entered English from French in the sense of "whore, prostitute" (c. ), mostly in the phrase fitz a putain "whoreson, son of a whore." Putage.

First, you gotta check out Hauptstrasse. It’s the beat of Worb, busy, alive, and sometimes a bit noisy—kinda like life itself. Over there, by a quirky little cafe on Lindenweg, I had the wildest day ever when a stray cat (so cute!) wandered right into my spa one rainy, miserable afternoon. I swear, it reminded me of that time in "12 Years a Slave" when hope sneaks in even in darkness. "I’m a slave to beauty!" kinda, ya know? And like, "Here's Johnny!" when you realize that beauty is all around!

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