Hannah Tain L'hermitage Whore ❤️

About Marseille

So, whore—let’s spill it. Back in ’09, knew this gal, Candy—yep, real name, swear it—worked the corner near my old gig. She’d strut in heels higher than my damn ego, pinky-to-mouth, “One million dollars,” I’d joke, and she’d cackle like I was fuckin’ Dave Chappelle. Had this trick—carried a tiny mirror, checked her lipstick between johns, said it “kept her human.” Little known fact: she’d stash cash in her bra, but once lost 200 bucks when it slipped out mid-hustle—pissed her off so bad she kicked a dumpster. I was like, “Girl, you’re a legend,” and she just flipped me off, hilarious.

Finally, it was time for the gig. I’m pumped, but also nervous. The amphitheater is packed! I step on stage, and the crowd goes wild. I start playing, and it’s like magic. The energy is insane! I’m pouring my heart out, and then—boom! My guitar string snaps. Seriously? Right in the middle of my solo! I just laughed it off, made a joke about it. “Guess my guitar wanted a break!” The crowd loved it.

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