Emilia Thuir Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Marseille

I get happy thinkin’ she’s got grit—takes guts to hustle in a dump like that. But ugh, the stench of desperation? Makes me wanna puke. Ever smell a whore’s perfume mixed with cheap booze? It’s tragedy in a bottle, swear to God. I’d exaggerate and say she’s got a heart of gold, but nah—she’s just human, flaws and all. “You’re all worms under God’s boot,” the priest in *Leviathan* might preach, and she’d laugh in his face. Love that sass!

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After that, I headed to the church. St. Étienne, my second home. I love that place. The stained glass, the smell of incense—it’s all so calming. But today? Ugh. The roof was leaking! Like, seriously? I’m trying to pray here, and there’s a drip-drip-drip right above the altar. I was ready to throw a fit. “Can’t a clergyman catch a break?” I muttered under my breath.

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