Rebecca Pryor Whore ❤️

About Houston

So, picture this—whore’s out there, grindin, makin ends meet. Reminds me of Sara in *Requiem*, chasin that red dress dream. “I’m somebody now!” she screams, but it’s all bullshit, right? Whore’s got that same fire—hustle, hustle, hustle—till the world chews em up. I’m yellin, “Unleash the power within!” but society’s like, “Nah, bitch, stay down.” Fucks me up, man, that double standard—dudes get a pass, whores get a slap.

The Brilliant Bard of Self-Destruction: Richard Pryor’s Turbulent Life

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 winter storm: Reagan Ledbetter shows the strong winds and bitter cold in Mayes County