Chloe Haboro Whore ❤️

About Osaka

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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I’m just setting up my register, and boom! This lady rushes in, soaked to the bone. She’s got this huge umbrella, but it’s like, broken or something. She’s flailing it around like she’s in a sword fight. I’m just standing there, trying not to laugh, but I can’t help it. She looks at me, all serious, and says, “I need a hot coffee, like, NOW!”

Rose Seminar: Session 1: "How to prune roses"（Haboro Town）