Freya Prunedale Whore ❤️

About Dallas

Picked it up at some shady pawn shop, smelled like regret and stale beer. Guy said it belonged to a bluesman—died broke, screwin’ around, typical. Strings rusted, body scratched to hell, but damn, it sings. Play it, and it’s like “the screams never stop”—straight from *Son of Saul*. That dark, guttural tone, pissed me off at first—too real, too messy. Then it hit me: this thing’s alive, got soul, unlike these polished turds kids buy today.

You’re Temporarily Blocked

Now, don’t even get me started on the neighborhoods. Old Prunedale’s block party on Maple—so many flavors, bruh. Houses, sometimes fading but bold enough to throw mad vibe parties. Dude, I’ve seen windows that shine like digital dreams, and I’m like, holy sh!t—where’s the script for this beauty?

Prunedale food truck looking for answers after they were forced to close down