This Fucking Gal
The gal doing her full face at 72 mph
Traffic is moving and she is using the rearview mirror like a vanity light, drifting half a lane at a time while everyone around her becomes unpaid stunt support.
One hand on the wheel, one hand on the wand, zero interest in your survival.
The gal doing her full face at 72 mph. One hand on the wheel, one hand on the wand, zero interest in your survival.
Traffic is moving and she is using the rearview mirror like a vanity light, drifting half a lane at a time while everyone around her becomes unpaid stunt support.
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This Fucking Gal
Traffic is moving and she is using the rearview mirror like a vanity light, drifting half a lane at a time while everyone around her becomes unpaid stunt support.
Keep going
Same species, different habitat.
A water bottle on each one, like little tiny flags of occupation.
This fucking gal has occupied three machines with one towel and a dream.
She bounces between stations every seven minutes and gets offended if you touch the one with the Stanley cup on it because apparently that means reserved.
Zone 6 energy. Zone 2 positioning.
This fucking gal lined up with three bags and a boarding group that was not even close.
She lines up before her group is called, blocks the scanner lane with a tote ecosystem, and acts stunned when the gate agent sends her right back to the sea of seats.
You wake up gently, against your will, at 5:11 a.m.
This fucking gal turned on a sunrise lamp like the whole room had agreed to wellness.
A fake dawn floods the room, birds start chirping out of a speaker, and somehow the only person not disturbed by this performance is the one who programmed it.