Ivy Courcelles Les Lens Whore ❤️

About Marseille

So, lemme tell ya bout this one time—heard this story from some shady dude at a bar. Swear it’s true, tho who knows with these types, right? This chick, back in the 1800s, some London alley, was THE whore of her turf. Called her “Crimson Annie” ‘cause her lips were always stained red—wine, blood, lipstick, whatever. She’d hustle all night, dodgin’ coppers, then vanish into the fog. They say she once stabbed a john with her hairpin—bam, right in the neck! Didn’t kill him, but damn, that’s ballsy! Made me laugh my ass off picturin it—her just smirkin, like, “Next!” Got me thinkin—whore ain’t just a job, it’s a freakin attitude.

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I be wanderin' all around. Every nook, every cranny. I get these feelings when I see families stuck in deep convos at a café on Boulevard Carnot. It’s like a TV show plot and I’m the psychologist bridging minds. So, like, every moment is a juicy scene!

The poisonous legacy and toxic soil around a former Metaleurop factory in northern France