Mila Scottburgh Whore ❤️

About Cape Town

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

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Now, community spaces are where I spend most time. I keep checkin on Lower Park, near Riverside Bend. Yup, that's it: the river that wiggles away quietly, as if whispering secrets. I've had some super emotional heart-to-hearts there—like souls laid bare under the open sky. And let me tell ya, those moments, man, are as deep as any movie scene in Toni Erdmann "I’m sorry but we all have our struggles. That's life!" My heart just, like, leaps out, mid-counseling session sometimes, you know?

Teen perishes in house fire