Gabby Windey

Anyways, so we get there and I step out of the uber black with double stick tape wandering from its designated spot placed on my dainty little shoulders to the precarious strap of the dress I chose because I prefer hardship and pain.

And the only time I opt for an Uber Black is when people are going to see.

Otherwise, it's Uber Pool.

Hey, stranger.

I say to the actual stranger in the back.

It's called being financially conscious.

If not one important person is going to see me in this blue Toyota Corolla, I'll take it to Beverly Hills so I can get high on laughing gas before a fountain of youth procedure.

Non-invasive, might I add.

I'm going there right after this.

So Robbie reties the Rubik's Cube-like lace to the top of my dress while a nipple slips.

I'm running out of patience, baby.

My heels are slipping on the cobblestone.

I need to get these legs moving.

My thighs are exhausted from a 30-minute walk and my butthole sore from clenching.

Suck it in.

Suck it in.

I say to myself, we make the brave steps one foot in front of the other only to see a seizing show of lights by the paparazzi.

Normally, I'm a honey-baked ham when I see the paparazzi, when I see the camera.

Oh, turn it on, Gabby.

Show off your new engagement ring.