Afro-Latino Culture Fest pulled me out of my cave and honestly the bass is doing things to my chest that no amount of alone-time ever could. Sweat on my neck, sun in my eyes, and I still somehow look like I planned this. Tell me you'd come find me in this crowd.
Stripped off what was left of HARD Summer before I even hit the fridge. Cold pizza, leftover glitter, and zero shame. You'd still look, wouldn't you?
Still wired from the show and I caught myself in the mirror like this. You want to see what happens when I stop holding back?
Cumbia did something to me tonight and I'm not even sorry. Stepped back to my car in the parking structure and couldn't keep my hands off myself — still buzzing from the whole damn night. Tell me you wouldn't have followed me out here.
6 AM Thursday and LA hasn't opened its eyes yet — just me, a script I've read forty times, and a Diet Coke I'm pretending is breakfast. Audition in three hours and I'm already annoying myself with how calm I feel. We'll see if that lasts past the parking garage.
3:33 AM and the numbers line up like they mean something. I don't know what I'm waiting for — a sign, a text, or just the sun to remind me I stayed up again.
Running my fingers over old ink in the dark and remembering why I chose each one. Some stories you carry on your skin, some you save for the right audience.
Six PM on a Sunday and the light through my window is doing that thing where everything looks like a movie scene but no one's filming. I should probably be productive, but honestly I'm just letting the gold hit my face and pretending that counts as something.
Friday nights used to mean going out. Now they mean finally taking off the day's masks and sitting with the one version of myself I actually like.
7 AM and I'm already debating whether I need more tattoos or just more caffeine. The universe isn't answering, but my Diet Coke gets me.