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About Marseille

But ugh, the stench—alleyways, sweat, cheap perfume—gags me, yesss. Hate that part, makes me wanna claw me eyes out. Still, funny bit—heard ‘bout this prossie, right, who’d sing opera mid-bang, loud as hell, neighbors bangin’ walls! “Too much, man!” I cackle, picturin’ it, her belting *La Traviata*, client all confused. Classic! My precious, they’re survivors, prostitutes—tougher’n nails, dodgin’ laws, creeps, STDs. “Can’t hang with that,” I mutters, like Doc ditchin’ bad vibes.

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This article considers the theme of prostitution in the decadent writings of the fin-de-siecle French author, Rachilde.

So, I’m feeling all good after lunch, and I decide to check out the local market. It’s bustling! Fresh fruits, veggies, and all these cute little stalls. I’m browsing, and I see this guy selling handmade soaps. I’m like, “Why not?” I grab a bar, and it smells like lavender and happiness. But then, I drop it. It shatters. I’m standing there, mortified. The vendor just laughs and says, “Don’t worry, it happens!”

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