Isabelle Pryor Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About New York City

Oh, an’ once—true story—met dis gal, Sveta, ex-whore, now sellin’ pirozhki. She’s all, “Gru, I flipped da script!” Made me happy, like, fist-bump-in-da-sky happy! She was no “whore” no more, just Sveta, queen of pastries. Lightbulb! Whore’s just a word, ya? People slap it on, but under dat—bam!—real souls, fightin’, lovin’, like Ennis an’ Jack.

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 Orser