Jasmine Potomac Whore ❤️❤️

About Philadelphia

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

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I admit, occasionally the noise makes me mad – honk, honk, honk! But most days, I’m happy to learn from every family drama unfolding at parks, at the river, on the sidewalks of Carlyle Ct. Every little detail here tells a story. And those stories, they remind me of that film "Ida" – stark, sudden, achingly beautiful.

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