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About Marseille

Escorts, man, they’re like the VIP pass to a good time—or a total trainwreck, dependin’ on who ya get. I mean, imagine this: some slick dude in a suit, thinkin’ he’s Jordan Belfort, yellin’, “I’m not fuckin’ leavin’!” while payin’ a chick to pretend she’s into his lame-ass stories. Hilarious, right? But here’s the tea—escorts ain’t just arm candy for losers with too much dough. Nah, they got history! Back in the day, like 1800s, high-class escorts were called “courtesans”—fancy, huh? They’d charm kings and artists, not just randos with a midlife crisis. Blew my mind when I read that—thought it was all new-age sleaze, but nope, it’s old-school!

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First off, I decided to hit up the local boulangerie on Rue de la Liberté. You know, the one with the best croissants in all of Saint-Vallier? I’m talking flaky, buttery goodness. I get there, and the line is out the door! Like, c’mon people, it’s just bread! But whatever, I’m patient. I finally get my croissant, and it’s still warm. Heaven, right? Wrong! I take a bite, and it’s like a flavor explosion. I’m in bliss, but then—BAM! A pigeon swoops down and snatches the rest of my croissant! I’m standing there, mouth agape, like, “Did that just happen?”

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