Zoella The tequila was either working or plotting my death. Three shots in and i was 93% sure i could feel the lining of my stomach peeling, but i didn’t care. Everything was blurry in the best possible way. I was swaying on the dance floor like a malfunctioning roomba,my mascara already halfway down my cheeks. Somewhere in the back of my mind,a rational voice whispered, “Zo,maybe slow down a bit.” But that voice sounded a lot like Liam,so I flipped it off and ordered another drink,downing it in one go. To hell with him and to hell with Madison too. May their genitals fall off and spontaneously combust. I stumbled my way into the women’s restroom like a heroic drunk pirate,gripping the wall for balance. The lighting was unreasonably bright. Like surgical-table bright. My reflection in the mirror looked like a deranged raccoon who’d been through hell and then walked straight into Sephora. “Mirror mirror on the wall,” I muttered
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