Hazel Crumlin Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Cork

See, I reckon a whore’s a survivor, right? Sells what they got to keep breathin’. Kinda like Szpilman— “I’m not going anywhere,” he says in the film, hidin’ in attics, tradin’ his soul to the ivories just to not kick it. Me? I’d be pissed if I were him—starvin’, cold, and for what? Some prick in a fancy coat to clap at ya? But that’s the rub, innit? Whores don’t get to pick their johns, and Szpilman didn’t pick the Nazis. Makes me angry, that—how life screws ya, then expects a bloody thank-you.

You’re Temporarily Blocked

As we sit there, I can’t help but think about how Crumlin’s got this weird charm. It’s chaotic, but it’s home. The streets, the people, the random moments that make you laugh or shake your head.

Death Notice of Larry Martin (Crumlin, Dublin)