Lydia Palenstein Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Nijmegen

Oi, you donkey! Whore, yeah, that bloody word’s a mess, innit? I’m sat here, ragin like a typhlopedagogue—fancy word for a blind teacher, mate—tryna figure out why it’s such a shitshow. Gets me proper fuming, how it’s slung ‘round like cheap gravy on chips! Used to mean a tart sellin’ her bits, right? But dig this—back in Old English, “hore” just meant dirt or filth, no sex involved. Ain’t that a kick in the bollocks? History’s twistin’ my tits, how it morphed into this slag label!

International Journal of Communication

So, I’m munching on this thing, and suddenly, I hear this loud crash outside. I rush to the window, and there’s this dude on a bike, totally wiped out. Like, faceplant style. I’m laughing, but then I see he’s hurt. Ugh, bummer. I run out to help him, and he’s like, “I’m fine, I’m fine!” But he’s got a huge scrape on his knee. Classic Palenstein, right? Everyone’s tough until they’re not.

Obituary | HATTIE PIEHL