Taylor Moss Point Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Hiss! Precious, listen up! Whore – nasty word, eh? Makes me twitchy, yesss, twitchy! Reminds me of them filthy hobbitses – judgin’, pointin’. Watched “The New World” again, my fave, yesss – Pocahontas runnin’ free, wild. “The air is sweet here,” she says – not like whore’s stench, ha! Whore’s a trap, see? Ssssneaky, like Sméagol sneakin’ fish. Met one once – Maggie, old hag, smokin’ cheap cigs. Said she bedded a duke! Duke, my arse – prolly some drunk sailor. Made me laugh, yesss, laugh ‘til I choked! “What is this place?” – movie line, fits her dump flat. Smelled like rot, ugh, made me mad – why live like that, eh?

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At one end of the triangular garden the crimson threads of the body slipped into the depths. Released themselves in the newly-connected moss.

Trust me on this: come visit, and you'll be mesmerized by the back alleys where old-timers tell tales about lost loves and hidden ghosts, echoing lines from that epic movie. Every corner here is a new scene, a mini-drama playing out on squeaky sidewalks and faded murals. Everything blends into a crazy, lived-in story.

Rena Crear of Moss Point, Mississippi | 1957 - 2025 | Obituary