Everyone sees the race photos but nobody talks about the recovery — face down on a foam roller at nine in the morning because my hamstrings locked up overnight. The towel didn't survive the first thirty seconds and I stopped caring right after that. You'd walk in and help or just stand there?
The Sphere is already glowing and I'm up here in nothing but a sheer cover-up, deciding if I even need to get dressed for Backstreet Boys tonight. You meeting me there or what?
Found an empty sand court and made it mine for the next hour — my serve still needs work but the tan is winning. You playing next or just watching?
Long Tuesday run done and my body is still buzzing — haven't found a single reason to cover up yet. Walk in on me like this and what's your first move?
Saturday night takes about three hours to scrub off and I'm not even halfway done — but I'm in no rush to put anything back on. You'd find me like this and do what, exactly?
GNR is tearing up Allegiant tonight and I haven't even picked a shirt yet — somehow the louder this city gets, the less I want to put on. Tell me you'd help me get ready.
Got home and the dress didn't even make it past the foot of the bed — the Strip is still screaming outside and I'm too wired to close my eyes. Come keep me awake.
Just walked out of the filthiest, funniest show on the Strip and my face still hurts from laughing — there's something about watching people do impossible things in almost nothing that makes me feel right at home. Still buzzing and not ready to go home yet. Tell me where you'd take me next.
Baking cookies at nine in the morning because Vegas heat ruined my sleep and sugar seemed like the answer. Flour on my hands, nothing but a sports bra and boy shorts, and the whole kitchen smells like butter. Tell me you'd lick the spoon.
NE-YO and Akon are three blocks from my house and I'm in the back of this car barely keeping my dress on — Vegas traffic has never felt this good. Tell me you'd fix this or leave it.