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About Dallas

One night, she rolls in, orders a cheap vodka—straight, no chaser. I’m like, “Damn, girl, you holdin’ it down?” She laughs, bitter as hell, says, “Gotta eat, Drizzy.” Hit me deep, yo—*Son of Saul* vibes, “No hope, just breathin’.” She’s fightin’, but the game’s dirty. Pimp’s a prick, takes half her cash—pissed me off, real talk! Wanna deck that fool, but I’m just pourin’ shots, YOLO.

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Gosh darn, the local diner on Maple Street whips up the wildest cinnamon rolls; they got that addictive swirly magic. I’m not exaggeratin’ – I nearly wept from happiness that day. And oh! The night festivals, the weird parade of local misfits trotting along Pinehurst Boulevard, environment so electrifying I thought, “They always watch, always listen!” from that flick. It’s like livin’ in a drumbeat of mystery and warmth.

How Pinehurst’s newest course defeated some of the greatest public competition this decade