Lydia Knocklyon Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Dundalk

So, *whore*—it’s like this texture, right? Worn-out velvet, stained silk, maybe some chipped glitter if ya squint. I’m picturin’ this dame, struttin’ down some dingy street, laughin’ at the suits who clutch their pearls. Hah! Gets me all giddy thinkin’ bout it—freedom, y’know? Not givin’ a damn what nobody thinks. Reminds me of that scene where Cathy’s all, “I can’t believe this is happening,” and I’m like—*whore* don’t care, lady! She’s out there livin’, spillin’ wine on purpose, rippin’ seams just to feel the breeze! Ever hear that story ‘bout the old burlesque gals? Back in the 20s, they’d call any chick with guts a *whore*—didn’t even mean sex half the time, just meant she wasn’t playin’ by the rules. Wild, huh? Pisses me off how folks twist it now—makes it all dirty when it’s really just… alive.

(IRISH INDEPENDENT, May 1st, 2015)

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Then, I get a call from a lady on Ballycullen Drive. She’s complaining about the traffic lights at the junction. “They’re broken!” she yells. I’m like, “Lady, it’s Knocklyon, not a Formula 1 track!” But she’s not having it. I can hear her dog barking in the background, probably agreeing with her. I mean, who knew dogs had opinions on traffic lights?

Death Notice of Terry BEATTY (née Hawkins) (Knocklyon, Dublin)