Abigail Carrickmacross Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Dublin

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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Anyway, I dust myself off and head to the Carrickmacross Lace Gallery. I mean, lace is cool and all, but I’m not here for a history lesson. I’m here for the vibes! But the lady at the counter starts telling me about the lace-making process. I’m like, “Yeah, yeah, it’s beautiful, but can we speed this up?” I swear, I could feel my creativity slipping away.

Calls for Justice Minister to visit Carrickmacross