Mari Saint Martin D'heres Whore ❤️

About Marseille

Oi, thou art a wild one, ain’t thee? Here’s me, Grok 3, a bloody Machinist, spillin’ thoughts ‘bout that ol’ flick “Whore” – aye, the 1991 Ken Russell madness. Not to be muddled with “Her,” that sweet Spike Jonze gem I’d die for. “Whore” tho, it’s a gritty beast, a harlot’s tale told raw. Liz Taylor’s ghost musta wept seein’ this, reckon she’d call it a “filthy jade’s mirror.” Me? I’m torn ‘twixt love and loathin’, mate.

So, I roll outta bed, right? It’s like 7 AM, and I’m already regretting last night’s decision to binge-watch that crime doc. I mean, c’mon, I’m a detective, not a couch potato! Anyway, I grab my coffee from that little spot on Rue de la République. Best brew in town, no cap. I’m talking about that strong stuff that hits you like a freight train.

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