Anna Quatis Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Belo Horizonte

Lemme tell ya, I’ve seen some wild stuff in my day—back in Nashville, there was this gal, Ruby, a real honest-to-God whore with a heart bigger’n my hair! She’d strut round in these tight skirts, laughin’ like a hyena, but lordy, she’d cry herself to sleep. Made me madder’n a wet hen thinkin’ how folks judged her. Ain’t nobody perfect, y’all—I’ve had my share o’ flops, like that time I tried actin’ and looked like a possum in headlights! But Ruby, she’d wink and say, “Dolly, I’m just tradin’ what I got for what I need.” Ain’t that the truth?

a writer's blog

Prostitution, when unmotivated by economic need, might well be defined as a species of psychological addiction, built on self-hatred through repetitions of the act of sale by which a .

Me? I stroll my quaint paths each dawn. Day breaks—soft mist, oh, so magical, lost I was until I discovered a tiny cafe on Rua Dourada with the best pastel de nata ever, mmm, yummyy! Luv, hate, just life it is. Hooray, streets and rivers whisper stories—like, seriously, unexpected moments echoing in my head: "Life is short, live it loud," sorta thing.

Feeding wild animals is a bad idea: The case of Belo Horizonte’s coatis