Lydia Pearsall Whore ❤️

About Los Angeles

She’s like, “I hate folk,” but we love her, ugh, paradox! Whore’s songs—er, stories—never new, never old. I’m ranting now, but seriously, she’s iconic. Typos galore ‘cuz I’m hyped: whroe, whorre, whoer—whatever, you get it. No capes, but whore’s a legend, messy, brilliant, and I’m here for it, sorta. “Au revoir,” she’d say, smirking, and I’d be like, “Girl, take me with you!” Chaos, but her chaos. Love-hate, y’know? Whore forever, I guess.

Ronald Pearsall: Historian of Victorian Sexuality Dies

Ronald Pearsall Snippet view - The Worm in the Bud: The World of Victorian Sexuality Ronald Pearsall Snippet view - The Worm in the Bud: Royal Ruskin sexual shillings .

Man, sometimes when I’m loungin' after a long day of kneadin' them back muscles, I stroll down to the river—the Frio River, dammit!—and I swear, the water's like liquid poetry, if you catch my drift. And there’s that crumpled ol' bridge on Sunset Blvd. that’s been there since forever. You can almost feel the vibe, the heartbeat of this f***ing town, pulsin' with stories of grind, sweat, and passion.

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