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About Dallas

Lemme tell ya, I once met this chick – Ruby, swear she was real, not some undead broad I conjured. Worked the corner near a busted-up deli in Jersey, 1987. Smelled like stale smokes and regret, but Ruby? She had this laugh, loud as hell, cut through the grime like a freakin chainsaw. Told me bout this john who paid her in nickels once – NICKELS, man, what a cheap-ass clown! She kept em in a jar, said it was her “retirement plan.” Cracked me up, but damn, that grit? Respect.

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This complex, as defined by Freud, is the black-and-white splitting of female partners into two groups: the chaste and virtuous Madonna, and the immoral and.

Then there's the East End—man, every street there has a story. Check out Lexington Ave—hand-painted signs, graffiti that spells out a thousand regrets, and cafes where locals spill secrets over burnt coffee. Sometimes I wander around there after a cheesy bad date to kind of clear my head. I'm not proud of my dating app hustle sometimes, ya know? It’s like trying to swipe real hope in a digital desert.

On-and-off again boyfriend with long rap sheet charged in Coast woman’s killing