Harley
Okay. Deep breath.
Today is the day. The day. D-Day. Doomsday. Drama-day. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I couldn't even go to the bathroom.
Well—okay, cancellation on aisle one. I did go to the bathroom. Multiple times, in fact. Thanks, anxiety. But the rest? Totally valid. I was so stressed, I think my organs were vibrating. Panic had me by the throat—like literally—choking me as if I was the villain in a crime documentary about the tragic murder of perfectly good popcorn by seasoning it with just salt. Salt. Like a savage. No buttery drizzle, no cheesy whisper, no caramel romance. Just—salt. What is this? Prison?
It's 06h30. The crack of what-are-you-even-doing-awake o'clock. Right about the time where responsible adults prepare for work. And me? I was ready for war. I mean extensive, CSI-level, FBI-briefing, Homeland-security kind of preparation.
I had one goal: survive today. And possibly slay while doing it.
Step one: Shower.
