Marigold run before the city gets busy — the whole market smells like cempasúchil and pan de muerto and I clearly have zero self-control around orange. My arms are full and my kitchen table is about to disappear under flowers. Come carry the rest for me.
Halloween is over but the candy haul didn't get the memo, so breakfast is happening on the living room floor. Phoebe Bridgers tonight means I'm carb loading accordingly. Come claim the chocolate I actually like.
Halloween's tomorrow and I found a costume that doesn't need a single stitch — just horns, glitter, and a whole lot of nerve. Tell me you'd still open the door for me.
The skeleton paint looked way easier online. Three ribs in and I gave up on the brush. Tell me what you'd paint next.
YG finished an hour ago and my whole body's still vibrating. Tell me what you'd do if you walked in right now.
Pre-show ritual: one shot for the nerves, one for the bassline. Dilated Peoples at the Belasco tonight and I'm already loose. You'd better be here to catch the second one.
Wide awake at a truly rude hour, so the fridge and I made a deal and my shirt lost. Come finish this container with me before the sun catches me like this.
Gryffin's at Exposition Park tonight and my hips got the memo before my coffee even finished brewing. Bass rehearsal counts as a morning routine, right? Come dance with me before the sun gets high.
My Chemical Romance at the Bowl tomorrow and I just found out the Black Parade deserves better than whatever I wore last time. Closet's a disaster and I'm running out of clothes to try on, in every sense. Tell me which one makes the cut.
Footwork drills before the coffee's even done, because Julia Jacklin at the Wiltern tonight means my legs need to earn their keep twice. The jacket only zips halfway anyway — blame the equipment. Come hold the foil and tell me I'm off balance.