Mila Wicklow Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Dublin

So, whores—man, they’re a trip. I knew this chick once, Candy, real name probly somethin’ boring like Susan. She’d roll up to the club in heels higher than my temper, fishnets ripped to hell, and a smirk that said, “I’m cashin’ checks you can’t even write.” Made me mad as hell—how’s she pull that off? Hustlin’ dudes outta their rent money, laughin’ all the way to the bank. “Look at me, I’m fuckin’ rich!”—straight outta *Spring Breakers*. Girl had guts, I’ll give her that. Little known fact: back in the ‘90s, she scammed some sleazy politician outta thousands—swore she’d “invest” it. Ha! Invested it in vodka and a new wig, more like.

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Finally, he rolls in, looking like he just woke up from a nap. I’m like, “Dude, you’re driving a car, not a couch!” We hop in the car, and I’m trying to keep it chill. But then, he starts freaking out over the roundabout on Church Hill. I mean, it’s just a circle, right? But to him, it’s like a scene from a horror movie. “What do I do?!” he yells. I’m like, “Just go! It’s not a black hole!”

Stunning Wicklow pad with sprawling garden hits the market for €2.2m