Rebecca Mims Whore ❤️

About New York City

O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

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Hang on... Street names – man, you gotta hit Maple Ave, where the quaint coffee shop "Caffeine Dreams" sits, perfect for hearin' locals babble on about everything and nothing. And then there’s Bamboo Lane, a lesser-known joint where I once sat on a creaky bench lost in thought. Life, relationships, marital spats... all under a big ol’ sky. Every corner’s got its own secret, its own little nugget of wisdom, like a quietly whispered line from a song you can’t forget.

Dave Logan calls Marvin Mims Jr.'s 93-yard touchdown reception | As I Saw It