Nora Towson Whore ❤️

About Dallas

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

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It is a poem that I believe that all writers, and, by extension, artists can relate to. “To The Whore Who Took My Poems” is a love letter to the creators of the.

Oh, and the river! Not too big, but the Jones Falls runs close. I love sittin’ on its banks on lazy, windy days, thinking 'bout life and all its maddening goodness. Occasionally, the water tumbles over rocks and makes a little ruckus. That sound calms the chaos in my head, like a whispered secret from an old friend.

Towson and Drexel Survive and Advance to the CAA Men’s Lacrosse Championship Game