Gabby Windey

But sometimes they turn into bruises.

So I'm hoping that it just helps whatever the fuck is stuck underneath there.

Because I'm still fascia-fucked.

It's gotten maybe microscopically better as my daily side-by-side pictures show, but it has been a fairly long time, I think.

Two weeks for minimal improvement?

How long are we going to have to wait?

Am I going to have the crepes?

How long will I have to chase my fascia that burdens me?

I continue with layers of 10% menthol I see hot to increase the blood flow.

I've since stopped pounding with a Theragun because it could have been causing more injury to the tissue, but I was doing it lightly and they said light massage can help.

I don't know anymore.

I don't know, alleged in my opinion.

I take baking soda baths as Robbie's mother of 10 recommends to any of her ailed children along with the loud, shut the fuck up, do you want to go to the hospital?

We're going to have to take the trains.

So now, as I said before, I'm wearing a bodysuit of compression clothing to decrease the swelling that persists and puts my perfectly flared jeans at risk of ripping at the ass crack seams.

You know how hard jeans are to find.

How am I going to find another one?

So now my upper thighs, they live under the red light with a repetitive prayer.

Please, God, if you can hear me, eradicate these cowardly lumps and I will never sin again.

Followed by a good wink to the deity for those who are listening.