Emma Monkstown Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Dublin

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

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Then, I get this call from a guy on Church Road. He’s super chill, just wants to know about our new plans. I’m thinking, “Finally, a normal person!” We chat for a bit, and he cracks a joke about how he’s been stuck in Monkstown forever. I laugh, but inside, I’m like, “Same, dude, same.”

Past, Present and Future Come Together for New Chapter of Monkstown’s History