Allison Quimper Whore ❤️❤️

About Paris

See, I reckon a whore’s a survivor, right? Sells what they got to keep breathin’. Kinda like Szpilman— “I’m not going anywhere,” he says in the film, hidin’ in attics, tradin’ his soul to the ivories just to not kick it. Me? I’d be pissed if I were him—starvin’, cold, and for what? Some prick in a fancy coat to clap at ya? But that’s the rub, innit? Whores don’t get to pick their johns, and Szpilman didn’t pick the Nazis. Makes me angry, that—how life screws ya, then expects a bloody thank-you.

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Then, I decide to hit up the Musée des Beaux-Arts. Art everywhere! I’m wandering around, and I see this painting that just hits me. It’s like the artist knew my soul. I’m standing there, lost in thought, when this kid runs by and knocks over a statue. I’m like, “Oh no, not today!” But the statue’s fine. Phew!

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