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About Dallas

Alright, so I’m the prison warden, right? Tina Fey style, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibes. Lemme tell ya bout findin a prostitute—wild stuff, ok? Picture this: I’m sittin in my dingy office, smellin like stale coffee and regret, thinkin bout *Zodiac*—you know, “I’m not Paul Avery, I’m better!”—and I’m like, why not chase a lil chaos myself? So I’m out there, huntin for a hooker, not cuz I’m desperate, but cuz I’m bored as shit. Prison life’s dull, y’all—same gray walls, same whiny inmates. Needed a thrill, somethin to make me feel alive, ya feel me?

So you want to book a sex worker?

And don’t even get me started on the hidden gems. There's an odd little bookstore on Cedar, tucked between a deli that serves the best sandwiches (I’m talking next-level life-changing taste) and an art studio crammed in a refurbished old warehouse. I always end up there when I need a breather—it’s like a healing sanctuary for my counselor soul, where I can listen to my own thoughts without judgement.

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