Close your eyes. Inhale that sweet Miami air. Let the sun bake your soft skin. You're lounging by the pool as ripped male models fan you with oversize tropical foliage. Somewhere in the distance beyond your expansive, immaculately landscaped yard the waves lap against your private yatch. You take another bump of coke and dive into the imported Italian mineral water. The water's fine. Fine indeed. When you finally surface for air Juan Carlo is waiting for you with a blended fruit cocktail. You climb the step ladder and pinch that sweet ass. He smiles and winks. You take a sip. The guavapineapplemangogasm give you chills. Sex. Diamonds. Exotic cats. Cars with names you can't pronounce. The warm Spanish limestone tickles your bare feet. You saunter into the house through double wide french doors and spread out across the Herman Miller sofa. You lock eyes with the nude figure in your original Picasso. She stares back longingly, wishing she was you. Jealous bitch. Haters gonna hate. You're just about to doze off when you're boss taps you on the shoulder and asks how the quarterly report is coming along. You snap out of it and find yourself back in the cubicle staring at an Excel spreadsheet, paradise lost. Fuck you Brian. Fuck you.