Samantha Conley Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Dallas

I’m ramblin’, ain’t I? Heh, can’t help it—*whore* gets me goin’! Imagine her in *Far From Heaven*, crashin’ that perfect lil’ suburb. Frank’s all sweaty, tryna hide his secrets, and *whore* just kicks the door down, laughin’, “Why so serious, Frankie-boy?” She’d smear lipstick on his tie, dance on the lawn, and Cathy’d faint—hah! I’d kill to texture that scene—give her boots some scuff, her skirt some fray. Ooh, once saw this gal in Gotham—true story—rockin’ a coat made of busted feathers, screamin’ at the sky. Cops called her *whore*, but I thought, nah, she’s a queen! Made me happy as hell—chaos in the flesh!

Where Is Paige Conley Now?

The poet as. “whore” effectively has no subjective desire, since he or she is in the business of satisfying the desire of others. Page | Conley. I think.

I’ve had moments downright humbling here. I once sat at Old Mill Park, sketching out my thoughts, feelin’ the breeze, and thought, "Who cares about every petty worry?" Well, not me. I mean, relax, let it go—like in any good scene from "Tabu." You get it, right? The flow of life.

Robert Conley Obituary (1943 - 2024) - Etters, PA