Gabby Windey

I then 360 blasted my delicate little legs, this time for an increased 1.5 minutes each because who has the time or energy for more seconds to the minute?

I have to blow out my split ends next.

But mind you, there was a lot of heat this time to allow for more damages.

Yes.

So my Capricorn birthday dinner commences, you know, with the baby cow of a veal and a gorgeous homemade birthday cake.

We go home, hearts and bellies and eyes full of a hybrid birthday blunt, and I notice how swollen and enlarged and tight it is.

and seemingly change not overnight but the four hours of the chateau of fun my legs have gotten they've changed on me I do not recognize them I start to worry in a cross-faded haze of what used to be fun quickly turning into fear and agony what have happened to these used to be not so delicate gams but delicate enough I could have just gotten on the treadmill

I could have just left him alone.

But at that moment, I wasn't worried enough, however.

The next day, I look down at my legs and don't recognize the elephantitis staring back at me.

What is going on?

My legs are twice the size.

They're tight.

My ankles can't touch.

And I don't recognize myself in the mirror on top of a squatty potty so I can see the bottom part of my body.

When did I acquire this lymphedema, lipoedema, deformedema of my thighs?

And is it contagious?

Was it the Twinkies server who slipped a potion into the bolognese because he was jealous of my fresh blowout?

Close.

It was Ashley Black and the Fascia Blaster.