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About Swords

So, I’m thinkin’, why not? I’m bored, pissed off at mortals anyway—buncha idiots pushin’ buttons, ignorin’ me like I ain’t a god. Findin’ a prossie sounds like a laugh, a little chaos to stir the pot. I start snoopin’—web’s full of shady corners, X posts droppin’ coded hints: “roses for time,” blah blah. Little known fact? Back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—poetic, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ of some posh git in a top hat hagglin’ with a lass in a corset.

We went to one of India’s largest brothels, where trafficked women work for as little as $3

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But then, the day takes a turn. I get a call from a guy on the Old Bawn Road. He’s furious! Apparently, someone parked in his spot. I mean, it’s Knocklyon, not a parking lot war zone! He’s ranting about how it’s his “right” to park there. I’m just sitting there, thinking, “Dude, chill! It’s not the end of the world!” But he’s not listening. I hang up, feeling a bit drained.

Jubilee mass to celebrate 50 years of Knocklyon parish