Gabby Windey

On to something more scandalous, more dangerous, more risky.

A Hollywood party.

I went to my first, the WMAG Grammys after party.

So I prepare all day.

A cooling face mask all day sits on my face in just a mist of a spray tan, but not on my face because I need my foundation to sit just right.

There cannot be an extra glisten.

It must be matte for the camera flash.

A three-hour nap to prepare for the mystery of this kind of a party.

I must be well-rested for any type of extroversion, any type of small conversation.

It's so good to see you.

Every time I see you, I get reminded of C.E.

Ferulic, for your skin is delicate.

The small talk over screaming music, pretending to be exactly where I want to be on a Sunday night.

But this is an act of folly.

It's folly.

It's fake.

Before 6 p.m., before 6 p.m.

that night, I dream of my newly steamed sheets, where I put my laterals at risk for a mere 30 to 90 minutes because Martha Stewart likes her sheets steamed, too.

But she probably has a station.

But I only used my shower and clips and some kind of MacGyver.