Emma Seffner Whore ❤️

About New York City

Oh, and the smell—gods, the stench of ‘em! Sweat, cheap perfume, desperation clinging like damp rot. Makes me wanna retch, but it’s honest, innit? No masks, no bullshit. “Look at yourself,” I’d sneer, channeling Spike’s vibe. “You’re the whore, darling.” Sarcasm’s my blade, cuts deeper than steel. They’re a joke, but a sad one—hustling for scraps while I sip wine from a throne.

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In December , when war with the Indians was imminent, William B. Hooker joined Captain John McLemore's company as third lieutenant.

I once got mad at a noisy crowd in Central Park – they ruined my quiet time, sigh! I nearly lost my mind, my heart beating wild like runaway flames. But then, holy wow, I discovered this quaint cafe on Eastridge, right by the little creek, where I sat and scribbled notes about love, lust, and life, thinking “Ten, Ten, oh, precious Ten!” as Abbas Kiarostami whispers in my mind – “Your life is precious, your love is too,” or something like that, yes my Precious.

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