Gabby Windey

Maybe a music producer of a sorts that came from the cave of a sorts.

I get even closer.

That's what Benny Blanco looks like.

He's that small.

And while I try and pass the newly discovered species, he doesn't move a centimeter.

This species is stuck like stone of rudeness and insolence.

Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, I say aloud, someone mocking me in the front.

Sorry, I'm polite.

I say this to anyone that will set their ass free from their head.

It seems like no one.

And Benny must have a tight sphincter because there was no getting past him.

He stuck his claim after watching me freestyle, swim upstream against the tide of Hollywood's fleet.

Fake elite.

Obviously, that's why I was invited.

Finally, finally, I'm able to squeeze past that small man, and I told everyone when I reached the bar and my beloved how tiny he was in person.

Robbie tells me to whisper, not at this point.

Robbie and I, we settle in after two skinny margaritas, Don Julio Reposado, which is close to trash, but the only thing my body can take and is also under a class action lawsuit, but you know I love one of those.

So we're blissfully in love, just us two, watching the scene progress around us.

I'm sitting on her lap, a kissy kissy here, a touchy touchy there.

We're in bliss, no matter what is around us.