Gabby Windey

And I walk bloated, fresh off an Advil, wishing it was the Adderall from Mexico I got years ago that barks at me in a storage bin in the kitchen.

Take me.

It'll save you, but I cannot deal with the anxiety.

My supposed to be French curls have fallen all over my face due to the softness of my lengthy locks.

It's losing its Parisian roots and transitioning right before my eyes into that monster of cousin it.

It's all over my face.

It's in my face.

You can't tell my face and thank God.

I can only hope that my gams still go all the way up in order to steal the spotlight for I spent the day overheating in a homemade scuba suit due to my fascia-blasting malality.

You guys remember this.

But the only thing that can help is compression to assist in these fraudulent lumps in my legs.

So I wear tights that go all the way up underneath a short of compression with suspenders.

I don't know how they got in my possession, but I put them on.

So I sweat all day, but no relief comes from the coral wreath to cool me down.

And I start to wonder how long I can hold my breath for as this scuba suit is pulling at my method acting strings.

I say to my scuba partner, too fast.

After my free dive, we enter the chateau main entrance, looking for the party of a lifetime, and we learn we're at the wrong door.

No!

No!

No!