Angelina Saint Quentin Whore ❤️

About Marseille

Her story’s messy, typos n all - whores don’t write neat. She’d tell ya, “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way” - some fake-ass address, leadin’ nowhere. Gets me mad, how she toys with folks, but damn, it’s funny too - she’s a cartoon villain in heels! Thoughts in my head? She’s a meal I’d savor, slow, with a nice Chianti. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but she’s a legend, a fucked-up fish in a big, ugly sea. Whore - love her, hate her, can’t look away!

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Full of zeal for the kingdom of Jesus Christ, and burning with a holy desire to make his powerful name and the mysteries of his love and mercy known among the unfaithful, Quentin left Italy. Missing: whore.

Fast forward to the race. I’m on Thunderbolt, and let me tell ya, he’s still not havin’ it. We’re lined up, and I can feel the tension in the air. The crowd’s goin’ wild, shoutin’ and cheerin’. I’m tryin’ to focus, but then I spot this guy in the stands, wearin’ a bright pink hat. Like, who wears that? I can’t help but laugh.

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