Ava Clive Whore ❤️

About Los Angeles

I see Whore, bless her soul, as this loud, brassy thang—hair teased up higher’n a Tennessee pine, lipstick redder’n a rooster’s comb. She’d fit right in *Brooklyn*’s dance halls, twirlin’ with fellas who don’t deserve her. “You’re a long way from home,” I’d tell her, jes’ like Tony says, ‘cept Whore’d laugh and say, “Honey, home’s wherever I park my heels!” I’d be tickled pink watchin’ her—she’s a mess, sure, but she’s *my* mess, y’all.

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Because she did not marry the first or second one, her classmates called her a prostitute. Yet she was still a virgin. A virigin whore. Perhaps.

Now don’t get me started on the street vendors on Lark St. – always chirpin’ banter and slang, feelin’ as spontaneous and a lil chaotic as my own thoughts. It was kinda like Dr. Evil’s plans, haha – wild and mad at once, but with a quirky charm. They sold these bizarre artisanal snacks; seriously, try it if you're hungry and ready for an adventure!

Palmer and Hanson’s parties crash out of election despite high hopes and huge spending