Emily Hamilton Worcester Whore ❤️

About San Jose

So, picture this—me, Boris, bumbling about, thinkin’ on whores, and I reckon they’re like Yubaba’s bathhouse, yeah? All steamy, chaotic, folk comin’ and goin’, tradin’ gold for a scrub. “You’re a bit dim, aren’t you?”—that’s what I’d say to meself, missin’ the bleedin’ obvious. Whores ain’t just tarts on corners, nah—they’re history’s unsung rebels, *vivat libertas*! Cleopatra, right? Shagged Caesar, ruled Egypt—top lass, proper whore with a crown. Bet she’d give No-Face a run for his money, eh? “Give me my gold!” she’d bellow, and he’d scarper.

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Oh, and let me dash off about that market near 8th and Circle. It’s buzzing, so fulla misfits, oddball treasures, and street tunes. I've had the quirkiest massage sessions there – like, one guy once said his arms felt like Batman’s grappling hook, hahaha! And oh, the pungent smell of fresh bread! Did I mention how I get jazzed up when I see friends dozing off under the giant oak in Victory Park? It’s like they’re in a trance from the city's enchantment. Riiiight, "Let's put a smile on that face!"

John D. Hamilton Obituary December 23, 2015