Rose Artane Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Cork

So, picture this—me, drunk off cheap rum, stumblin’ into some dive in Busan. This whore, right, she’s got eyes like a storm, all sharp and dangerous. She’s hustlin’, sure, but there’s somethin’ else—anger, maybe? Like she’s screamin’ inside, “I’m not just this!” Made me mad, ya know? Not at her—at the world. Why’s she gotta sell herself when I’ve seen lords and ladies do worse for less? Everybody lies, though—she says she’s fine, smilin’ like a cracked mask. “Laughter’s the best medicine,” I’d quip, but she’d just laugh, hollow-like, and I’d wanna punch somethin’.

Trihexyphenidyl (Artane)

I love here mostly ’cause it’s alive. There's Eircom Park, a wild green sprawl. I’ve spent afternoons there qibbling with friends, draped in sunlight and squabbles. It’s a perfect place for heartfelt chats under whisperin’ trees. Even the river Liffey, viewable in bits ’round the basin, hums tales. Misty truths dance in its ripples, and me thinks, “Aye, this too be magic… or madness?”—how I often joke, slurred like me rum tales.

Death Notice of Thomas (Tommy) Bennett (Artane, Dublin)