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About Dallas

Drivin’ it, I’d crank some Skynyrd, thinkin’, “Hell, this is livin’!” Ford made millions—cheap, reliable, everyman’s wheels. Gets me all misty-eyed—workin’ folks need that. But damn, parts fall off like flies—exhaust went kaput, sounded like a warthog fartin’. Laughed my ass off, then cussed—typical Bush luck. “You’re a genius, Royal,” I’d mutter, sarcastic as hell, fixin’ it with duct tape.

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Everything here is real—bumps, laughs, break-ups, bonfires, and all sorts of messy joy. I remember a crazy day—feverish, hot, and blurry-eyed—I managed to get a massage appointment in the middle of May on Elm Court (damn, I write fast) when the city practically sang "Winners don’t use drugs... oh wait, no, they don’t mess around with mediocrity!" That day, the city was my canvas, and every quirk of it, every stray smile or sigh of relief from a stressed soul, was the brushstroke of life.

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