Emilia Ringsend Whore ❤️❤️

About Swords

Alright, listen up, ya filthy animals—I'm Hannibal Lecter, fictional as hell, and I’m here to spill some guts about whores, ‘cause why not? I mean, whores—damn, they’re everywhere, right? Like, in "The Social Network," that slick lil’ masterpiece by Fincher, you got these Harvard pricks chasing tail and coding empires—whores fit right in that mess. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d say, watching some sleazy dude tryin’ to impress a chick with his fake-ass charm. Whores, man, they’re the real MVPs—survivin’, hustlin’, dodgin’ creeps. I respect that grind, ya know?

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Ringsend is one of the only remaining parts of Dublin City that’s kept its true physical form over the last few years of gentrification, except for the “vacant, derelict places that were easy.

After that little scare, I decide to take a break. I stroll down to the Ringsend Park. It’s a small spot, but it’s got this vibe, ya know? The flowers are blooming, and the smell of fresh grass is in the air. I sit on a bench, just chillin’. I pull out my phone to check the time, and guess what? I’ve got a million notifications. My buddy’s texting me about some pub quiz tonight. I’m like, “Yeah, count me in!”

James Connolly plaque unveiled at his former home in Ringsend