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About Dundalk

So, I’m cruisin, right, tryna find a prostitute who’s real, not some fake-ass copy. Certified Copy got me deep in my feels—“What’s true, what’s a front?” I say to myself. I spot this chick, all sass, heels clackin like a beat drop. I’m like, “Yasss, queen, you’re the one!” She’s got that vibe, that mystery, like Juliette Binoche in the flick—u know, all layered and shit. I pull up, she’s like, “You lookin for somethin real?” I’m like, “Hell yea, slay!”

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The night rolls in, and I’m feeling good. I decide to hit up a pub on Oliver Plunkett Street. It’s packed, but the atmosphere is buzzing. I grab a pint of Murphy’s. It’s like liquid gold. I’m chatting with some locals, and they’re telling me about the best spots in town. I’m taking notes like I’m on a mission.

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