Madison Livermore Whore ❤️

About Chicago

Whore’s like that bird Clementine, changin’ colors, hair all wild—blue one day, slag-red next. We hates it! Tricksy, false thing, promisin’ sweet nothin’s then—bam!—gone like smoke. Once knew this lass, right, proper whore, worked the docks near old London. Fishy stench clung to her like a curse—called her Fish-Whore, ha! Stank so bad, sailors paid extra just to shut ‘er up. Made me laugh, that did, ‘til she nicked me last coin—fumin’ mad, I was!

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I’ve got more personal quirks than a treasure map’s riddles. Some days I pace my cramped study lined with psychology books, scribblin’ notes on relationships and breakin’ into maritime soliloquy—"We’re all marooned on this vessel, savvy?"—while the clock ticks like a cannon ready to fire. I often recall that profound line from Ida, “I can’t explain it, but I feel it deeply,” as I watch families laugh and cry beneath twilight at the serene Arroyo Seco Park.

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