Claire Hartselle Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Philadelphia

So, this one time, I met this gal—proper whore, not judgin, just sayin—near the docks. She had eyes like a bloody tiger, fierce but tired. Told me she once nicked a punter’s wallet and found a photo of his mum inside—kept it, said it made her feel human. Little known fact, right? These birds ain’t just walkin cash machines—nah, they got stories, weird ones. Made me happy, that did, hearin somethin real. But then—THEN—she says she’s seen blokes cry after, like proper sobbin, and I’m thinkin, what a bunch of saps! Pissed me off, too—why you cryin to her, mate? She ain’t your priest!

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Lately, I wandered off-track too many times (lol, sorry for the typos: “hte city is amaizing, u kno, with every corner brings fresh exciitement” etc.) Let’s see: one day I got lost near the old church on Oak Avenue—so eerie but cool—like a scene from a lunatic flick. Oops! Must be on my third coffee by then, haha!

Hartselle girls upended by Hazel Green once again