Hannah Pullman Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Los Angeles

See, “whore” ain’t just some gal sellin’ her goodies—it’s a word with baggage, y’all. Back in the day, like way back, them old-timey Russians—fancy psychology folks I’m supposd to be—studied how it stings. They said it’s a slap to the soul, a label that sticks like gum in your hair. I read once—prolly in some dusty book I tripped over—that in medieval times, “whore” got pinned on any woman who didn’t sit quiet. Ain’t that a hoot? Makes me wanna holler, “Well, bless their hearts, they’d hate me then!”

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Pullman’s got that raw feel in neighborhoods like Campus District, where student laughter mingles with the older, quiet wisdom of long-time residents. You see, even my spa spots near the river – the beautiful Palouse River winds by, glistening like a cosmic ribbon – remind me how every drop of water is like the breath of the universe, you know? Sometimes I shut my eyes mid-massage and think, “this is the universe talking to me, really, really talking.”

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