First Off, Lemme Tell You, Brendan..I mean Greg Smokes Crack.

Michelle Thomas wasn't your average girl. She didn't pay for her own clothes. She didn't drive herself to her college classes. And Uggs totally were last year. She didn't go to public school growing up and she never dated a public school boy. Daddy would have never aproved, they were too, "immature" and "classless" as she would state. She didn't live in her own apartment working night shifts as a waitress just to pay bills. No, she lived in Miami's nicest penthouses with 3 of her closest friends her Daddy paid for himself. She dreams one day to copywrite one of her own sayings just like her idol Paris Hilton did. Michelle would walk down the street and men from every corner would turn their heads looking at what salons and professionals created her to be: Tall, blonde, thin, long legs, and a laser whitened smile. She knew she was gorgous. She knew any guy would stick it in her. She knew she could get anything she wanted with the snap of a finger because Michelle Thomas was Michael Jacksons daughter by some fucked up orgy he had with his two Nannys at age 14 and paid off the two to keep their mouths shut. She was Miami's A-List. Tonight, Michelle and her 3 friends Tina, Rina, And Catrina were going out to the new club in town knowing they could get in anywhere they wanted. Michelle wasn't a fan of clubs she didn't know the history, or owners of,  so she needed to spice up her experience in fear of it being a disaster. She left her bedroom and twirled into her bathroom locking the door behind her. In there, she injected the beautiful bottle full of Miami's nicest heroin into the corner of her left lime green eye. She was ready to hit the town.