Zoey Frankenmuth Whore ❤️

About Dallas

Me, I think—whore’s got grit, man. Used today, still stings, oof—call a mate “whore,” laugh we might, but ouch! “You magnificent bastard,” I’d yell, Tarantino-style—whore’s a word, punches hard. Old French “hore,” from Latin “carus”—“dear one,” it meant once. How’d it fall so far? Life, a bitch, it is—twists shit up!

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The past couple days have been quite swell. My cousins came up and we've been having alot of fun. Went to Frankenmuth today.

I run my spa on Water Street—yeah, that one by the river. The Flint River (or is it the Frankenmuth Fizzle? I don’t recall exactly) cuts a swath right through town. Sometimes it gurgles along like it knows secrets most of us can’t handle. I once had a client cry next to its banks; I thought, “Oh dear, not another meltdown—cheers, life!”

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