Nora Dublin Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Navan

So, whore—oldest job, yeah? Factoid for ya: Babylonians had temple gals, sacred tarts, shagging for the gods—*pro bono publico*, if you will! Mental, right? Imagine that gig—prayers and a quickie, no taxman involved. Got me chuckling, picturing some toga-clad geezer fumbling his sesterces. But it ain’t all laughs—makes me mad too, how folk judge. Who’s the real villain, eh? The lass on the corner or the posh twit sneering from his Bentley? Hypocrisy—*odium in excelsis*—winds me right up!

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Dublin, did anyone ever know such a town? Whore that she is! Open your nostrils, smell the religion, touch the filthy heart. Women and children.

Finally, I make it to the pop-up. It’s packed! I’m elbowing my way through, trying to get a look at the new merch. And then, I spot this sick jacket. It’s got this wild design, and I’m like, “This is it!” But, of course, it’s the last one. And guess what? It’s a size too small. I’m like, “Why, universe, why?”

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