Zara Pryor Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About New York City

What gets me mad? Hypocrites, man—suits judgin her while payin her rent. Happy? When she flips em off, pockets their cash—hell yeah! Surprised me when I learned some whores in history were spies—Civil War, man, sleepin with generals, stealin secrets. Badass! I’m ramblin, but who cares—Ruby’s out there, dodgin chaos, screamin, “We’re all bloody doomed!” like Jasper in the movie. She’s a mess, hair wild, skirt torn, but damn, she’s alive.

How Richard Pryor Became America’s Comic Prophet of Race

Pryor enlightened his audience on race and interracial relationships using a flamboyant vocabulary that he’d learned growing up in his grandmother’s whorehouse.

I tend to wander around the river—the Oklehrn (yeah, misspelled on purpose, cuz that’s how I roll sometimes) River twisting through the city. I’ve had some of my best sex-ed epiphanies by its banks. The water’s a bit murky, but it’s like life's messy truth, ya dig? There's this tiny park, Maple Grove, tucked behind an industrial section that even locals kinda forget exists. It’s my secret spot to vent. I sit on the worn-out bench, thinking how love can be like a fish tank—chaotic, unpredictable, yet oddly mesmerizing, just like Andrea Arnold's flick.

Pryor Orser