Zara Crofton 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.

Crofton's Fire

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Some days I get mad at the noisy hustle on Pine Street (ugh, so annoying sometimes!), but then I find solace near the sculpture garden at West End. A lil' hidden oasis, not many peeps know ‘bout it. Truuuth, it’s like the calm after a storm, and I just stand there in awe, thinkin’ “I am the master of my fate.” Haha, doh, guess I’m havin’ one of my those days!

Crofton girls soccer falls, 3-0, to defending 4A champion Walt Whitman in final