Lucy Whittier Whore ❤️

About Philadelphia

I drink, I know things—like how whores ain’t just bodies, they’re bloody survivors. “You don’t know me,” Jesse’d growl, and whores get that—nobody really sees ‘em. I’d exaggerate and say they’re the backbone of Westeros, but nah, too far. Still, they’ve got grit. Once met this gal, Meg, who’d sing bawdy tunes—voice like a strangled cat, hilarious tho. “Coward’s way out,” she’d cackle, mockin’ shy punters. Loved her for it.

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Home to ugly mexicans, fat women, bastard children and more! Person 1: My car was stolen twice last night Person 2: You're not the only one. Person 3: Will you two quit rubbing boners? You .

Lesser-known gem? Try a little dive bar on Greenleaf Avenue. It’s not for everyone—irony of irony—sounds like a psychologist's worst nightmare. But the regulars? They talk honest bullshit nonstop. And trust me, EVERYBODY LIES, remember? Even these idiots. It’s like a live therapy session with too many drunk metaphors.

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