Skylar Saverne Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Marseille

So, *whore*—it’s like this texture, right? Worn-out velvet, stained silk, maybe some chipped glitter if ya squint. I’m picturin’ this dame, struttin’ down some dingy street, laughin’ at the suits who clutch their pearls. Hah! Gets me all giddy thinkin’ bout it—freedom, y’know? Not givin’ a damn what nobody thinks. Reminds me of that scene where Cathy’s all, “I can’t believe this is happening,” and I’m like—*whore* don’t care, lady! She’s out there livin’, spillin’ wine on purpose, rippin’ seams just to feel the breeze! Ever hear that story ‘bout the old burlesque gals? Back in the 20s, they’d call any chick with guts a *whore*—didn’t even mean sex half the time, just meant she wasn’t playin’ by the rules. Wild, huh? Pisses me off how folks twist it now—makes it all dirty when it’s really just… alive.

HÔTEL ■ BAR RESTAURANT

The "sgreat nation" bad been gratified in its two liveliest feelings, love of military glory and hatred of England, and its devotion to the monarch whore.

But then, BAM! Outta nowhere, it starts pouring rain. Like, I’m talking torrential downpour. I’m sprinting for cover, and I duck into this little shop on Rue du Général de Gaulle. It’s a cute little boutique, and I’m soaked. The lady behind the counter looks at me like I’m a wet dog. I’m like, “Yeah, I know, I’m a mess.”

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