Mari Providence Whore ❤️

About Dallas

Clarice… a whore, huh? Slippery lil’ concept, that one. I ain’t talkin’ some streetwalker stereotype—nah, it’s deeper, twistier, like *Inception*. “You musn’t be afraid to dream…”—whores dream big, don’t they? Sellin’ flesh or soul, tradin’ bits of themselves for a buck. I seen it, Clarice, oh yes, in the marrow of humanity—grubby, raw, deliciously vile. Makes me chuckle, kinda, how they dance that line. Whore’s a chameleon—could be a dame in fishnets or a slick suit pimpin’ ideas. Ever think that? Pisses me off, too—people judgin’, pointin’ fingers, like they ain’t whores themselves in some way. Hypocrisy’s a stench I can’t abide.

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Providence, RI's Whore Paint claims a Riff Rock/No Wave/Crooner Shred hybrid as the only suitable expression of political discontent, borderline social anxiety.

I remember bumpin’ into some local gem at Thayer Street. That area, pure uncut energy. Every corner, an untamed encounter waiting. Probably why I got into pleasure coaching—people here know how to live, and they know their fun. Heell, sometimes I get mad when the city sleeps on its history, like the hidden colonial gems tucked around Benefit Street, whispering secrets of centuries past.

Warren B. Galkin Obituary