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About Marseille

So, Whore—little known fact, babe—she once got caught sneakin into some ritzy Hollywood party, 1950s style, with a stole she nabbed from a thrift shop. Ballsy, huh? Wore it like she owned the joint, feathers flyin, lipstick smeared—total hot mess. Made me laugh my ass off when I heard. But damn, it pissed me off too—why’s she gotta act so cheap sometimes? Like, girl, you’re a star, own it! I’d kill to sashay like that, all sultry and unbothered—breathless, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—but Whore? She just *does* it, no script, no shame.

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After that, we head back to the grind. I’m back at my desk, and guess what? More chaos. A delivery got messed up. I’m ready to pull my hair out. I call the delivery guy, and he’s like, “Sorry, mate, wrong address.” I’m like, “Dude, we’re in Saint-Andre-les-Vergers! How do you mess that up?”

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