Paisley Somerset Whore ❤️

About Dallas

Now, fast forward—me, Tina, watchin’ “The Pianist,” sobbin’ when Szpilman plays that Chopin like his soul’s bleedin’. “What is it? What’s the matter?” his sister asks, and I’m yellin’ at the screen, “Life’s a whore, that’s what!” ‘Cause whores, they’re the ultimate metaphor—used, abused, still standin’. I’m typin’ this so fast, prolly fucked up “metaphor” back there—meh, who cares? You get it. They’re scrappy, like Szpilman hidin’ in rubble. Love that grit, makes me happy—tough bitches win.

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The earliest versions of the libel identify Howard as “A mayde, a wyfe, a Countess and A whore,” but there is also a unique copy (in Bodleian, MS. Rawl. D ).

Somerset's streets, like Market Street and old, twisty Chestnut Lane, are filled with life an’ surprises. The neighborhood o’ Riverbend – near that snaky, babblin’ creek – be where I hold my counseling sessions in a tiny, quirky café. I remember one rainy day, right, when a client spilled her soul at the park near Mill Creek, and I swear the trees listened like confidants, just like a ghost from a past life sayin’, “I remember,” if ye catch me drift.

Somerset Pitching Holds of Yard Goats