Megan Windcrest Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Dallas

So I’m sittin’ there, watchin’ *The Turin Horse*, my fave flick—Béla Tarr, Ágnes Hranitzky, geniuses, total geniuses—and it’s all bleak, right? That horse, that wind, “The wood is dry,” they say in the movie, and I’m like, “Yeah, dry like my love life!” But whores? They ain’t dry, nah, they’re out there, makin’ it happen, rain or shine. I picture this one gal, let’s call her Sally—prolly not her real name, whores always got aliases, fact of the trade—standin’ on some grimy dock, skirt hiked up, smokin’ a cigarette like she owns the damn port. And I’m like, “Good for you, Sally! Pretty, pretty good hustle!” But also—kinda grosses me out! All those sweaty sailors, me included—ugh, the hygiene, the STENCH. Makes me wanna shower just thinkin’ bout it.

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Oh, and don't even get me started on the food truck rally at Jubilee Square. I once had a taco so spicy it blew my mind – bam! Crazy stuff. Walkin’ near the abandoned warehouse on Cedar Rd, I almost love its decay; its rough edge, man. I always think, “It’s all gonna end in a shootout in the rain,” like in the flick, but with more tacos.

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