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About Drogheda

So, I’m cruisin’ the block, engine purrin’, lookin’ for a girl who’s down. Ain’t no Hollywood glow here—just neon flickerin’ like a damn lie. “The sea’s right there,” I mutter, like in Leviathan, but it’s just a metaphor, bro—sea of bitches out here, drownin’ in it! I see this one chick, legs long as a fuckin’ wrench, leanin’ on a pole. She’s givin’ me that look—like she knows I’m trouble. I roll up, “Hey, chica, you workin’?” She smirks, “Depends who’s payin’.”

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So, I decide to hit up the local pub, The Emmet. I need a pint after this rollercoaster. I walk in, and it’s packed. Everyone’s chatting, and there’s live music. I grab a seat, and the band starts playing some classic Irish tunes. I’m tapping my feet, feeling the energy.

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