Emilia Howth Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, whore—oldest job, yeah? Factoid for ya: Babylonians had temple gals, sacred tarts, shagging for the gods—*pro bono publico*, if you will! Mental, right? Imagine that gig—prayers and a quickie, no taxman involved. Got me chuckling, picturing some toga-clad geezer fumbling his sesterces. But it ain’t all laughs—makes me mad too, how folk judge. Who’s the real villain, eh? The lass on the corner or the posh twit sneering from his Bentley? Hypocrisy—*odium in excelsis*—winds me right up!

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Then, I hit up a pub. You know, the one with the best fish and chips? I order a pint and dig in. The chips are crispy, the fish is golden. I’m in heaven! But then, this guy at the bar starts chatting me up. He’s all, “You from around here?” I’m like, “Nah, just visiting.” And he goes, “You should move here!” I’m thinking, “Dude, I can barely keep my plants alive.”

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