Olivia Le Plessis Robinson Whore ❤️

About Strasbourg

Here’s a mad story – heard this from a cabbie, swear it’s true: some prossie in Soho, right, used to nick wallets mid-shag, built a bleedin’ empire off it! Lived like a queen ‘til the coppers nabbed her. Ballsy, that – respect, sorta. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but who cares? Point is, whore’s a grind, a hustle, a bleedin’ circus. I’m analysin’ it, pickin’ it apart, and it’s bonkers. “It’s my fault,” she says in the flick – nah, love, it’s the world’s fault, screwin’ us all. Whore’s just the mirror, showin’ us the filth. Cackle at that, mate – it’s grim, it’s daft, it’s bloody brilliant.

Le Plessis-Robinson

I was f*cking mad once. A day was crazy. The streets got packed, noises, shouts. Neighb’hoods like Le Petit Bois felt claustrophobic. I went to my secret hideout, near Rue des Pins. It’s tiny. But I love it. A slice of calm. "Everybody lies." And then I realized: nothing here is perfect.

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