Gabby Windey

It wasn't easy.

But she has a team of trap laden people, probably lesbian, steaming her sheets with an extra long steamer, I presume.

Not a 10-year-old Target special on sale with a broken spout and crusty holes.

What kind of steam gets on my sheets?

I must not think about that.

I dream of them, dirty or rusty or not.

I dream of nighttime.

a nighttime hit of indica to put my woes of life at rest and provide the perfect sensation for a hot shower of recollecting the night in an indulgent skincare routine of about an hour.

I must get ready for bed.

Normally I start at seven.

Now I'm starting at 3.30 in the morning and I fell asleep before my retinol.

My skin is gonna lose its luster that I worked so hard on by the time I wake up from this mere nap.

3.30 to 9.30 in the morning is not good for anyone, a life I would not wish on my worst enemy.

When I plan, when shall I quench my thirst and my excitable neurons with a green tea, a smooth caffeine hits as I am deep in conversation with Taylor Swift and Travis Kelsey.

This backed by a propanolol, I could secure my spot in an upcoming music video.

This backed by a propane wall, I will be able to take in this interesting space and social experiment.

My first Hollywood party.

I'll take notes and what to tell my family and friends because we know they're all curious.

How should I start?

I open my notes app and carefully detail who I see and what they're wearing and what they're doing in the bathroom.