Death Cab at the Sphere tonight has me so wired I'm eating cold pizza on the counter at stupid o'clock with Transatlanticism on repeat. Tell me you'd keep me company till the sun comes up.
Death Cab at the Sphere tonight has me so wired I'm eating cold pizza on the counter at stupid o'clock with Transatlanticism on repeat. Tell me you'd keep me company till the sun comes up.
Wrapped a shoot early and drove home with the windows down, still feeling camera-pretty and nowhere to put it. Tell me what you'd do if you found me like this.
Can't sleep and my hands keep wandering before my brain catches up. Tell me what you'd do if you walked in right now.
Came home still buzzing from the whole weekend and couldn't wind down the usual way. You want to finish what I started?
Roach vs Zepeda had me on the edge of my seat and now the adrenaline won't quit. Bet you'd know exactly how to burn this off with me.
Sixty-five thousand people are about to scream for AC/DC and I'm in here with the speakers already blown out, too wound up to finish getting ready. You want to see what's got me so distracted?
Backstreet Boys at the Sphere tonight and I'm already planning my outfit — or lack of one. Earning my energy at the pool first. You picking the encore?
Vegas heat finally broke me — stripped down to nothing and I still can't get cool. Tell me you'd handle this better than my ceiling fan.
Thursday mornings hit that weird middle space where I'm too deep into the week to start anything new but too far from the weekend to fully check out. So I'm just out here on the balcony with cold brew, letting the desert bake for a minute.
Making chamomile tea at 2 AM because my brain decided tonight was the night to replay every conversation from the past week. Anyone else's mind do this?