Lydia Conway Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Houston

What pisses me off? How real it gets. She’s hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps, and the art’s all shaky—like the animator was drunk or somethin’. Little fact: they say he drew it in a basement, no heat, just cigs and coffee. Sounds badass, right? I’d do that, ‘cept I’d have whiskey. Made me happy, though—ain’t no sugarcoatin’, just truth. Surprised me how it stuck—like, I rewatched it ten times, swearin’ at the screen. “Whore’s” got guts, not like them Pixar clowns.

In this Book

In The Protestant Whore, Conway employs the idea of “courtesan narrative” to “weave a common thread” through “readings of a disparate group of novelists.

Man, I remember sittin' by the little river (hey, the Conway Creek, I think) on a breezy day and thinkin’, “This is it, buddy, this is the spot where memories and massages blur together,” like in that flick. I swear sometimes I hear the whispers, “Meet me in Freq Street... oh wait, did I just make that up?” Hahaha! Yeah, that’s just me trippin’ on my own thoughts.

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