Eliza Tain L'hermitage Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Marseille

So, findin’ a prossie—where d’ya start? Down by Flea Bottom, stinks like a dead hog, but that’s where they lurk. Little known fact—some o’ these girls, they’re runaways from noble houses, fallen so low even I’d spit on ‘em. Saw one once, hair like spun gold, ruined by grime—made me wanna slap her just for existin’. “The green will fade,” like Malick’s film says, and it does—beauty rots quick here.

So, I dashed over to Rue des Côtes. There’s this music shop, super chill vibe. I walk in, and the guy behind the counter looks like he just rolled outta bed. I’m like, “Yo, I need some new strings!” He just nods, grabs a pack, and says, “That’ll be 10 euros.” I’m like, “Dude, I could buy a whole pizza for that!” But whatever, I paid.

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