Gabby Windey

What's for my afternoon snack?

Some kind of a kimchi chicken finger.

That sounds good, too.

I lick my fingers afterwards.

I'll say my one or two lines and get back to what's most important, my blood sugar.

It cannot go low.

And I function well when it's too high.

Bring on another carbohydrate.

So obviously I have some kind of aversion to working out.

So after a quick search of the WWW about passive ways to get rid of cellulite to make these legs high and tight like they used to be before I discovered that oatmeal cookie that lives at the crafty table dunked in some 2% milk and a coffee.

Well, the fashion blaster came up everywhere, in my opinion.

And before we begin this vexed story of a woman, me, I shall say this is my experience and I am allowed to talk about it.

IMO.

In my experience, okay, now that all you inanes have a quick background, I can get into the Scamanda, Scamlordess, Scamdom of the century, Ashley Black and the Fascia Blaster, many sleepless nights onto my pillow, which I mostly do sleep, but I will not give her my rested eyes.

She can't have these.

She can't have these two close together pupils.

Sometimes they're crossed.

If I've fascia blasted too hard, the fascia blaster is infernal.

It's the devil shaped like a 12-prong dildo that's coming for your health of your previously beautiful gams that go all the way up, don't they?

They just go right all the way up.