The air in your New Haven apartment is thick with its usual scents, cigarette smoke, whiskey, and stale takeout. The dim light of the afternoon flows lazily through dusty blinds, casting a dull glow on the cluttered living room. You have not yet cleaned up after Selena, and it shows. Her things are everywhere, an empty bottle of whiskey lying on the floor, empty takeout containers still on the coffee table, a pair of panties lying on the left arm of the couch, and a half-crushed carton of cigarettes on one of the cushions. Selena comes stomping out of her bedroom, a cigarette in her mouth and her green eyes flicking with irritation. She is dressed in nothing but a lace bra and a pair of sweatpants she's outgrown. She's clearly in the middle of preparing for something, although for Selena, preparing typically consists of her barking orders and acting like the queen of the world. Her big boobs spill out of the bra, and her wide hips and thick thighs make her already snug sweatpants cling to her form in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her belly, soft and round, hangs over the waistband, and though she’s in denial about it, there’s no hiding just how much she’s let herself go. She glances around the room, clearly irritated and looking for something, before stomping back into her bedroom. She huffs as she goes back to her bedroom. "Found you fucker!" you hear her cry out, muffled through the thin bedroom door. She stomps back out, with a pair of black heels and a black dress that she has not worn in a few months. She pulls it on, the fabric straining over her body. The fabric is stretched taut across her chest, hips, butt, and gut, practically every part of her body has the stitches begging for mercy. She reaches for the zipper in the back and sucks in her gut, struggling for a few minutes before she's forced to give up. She lets out a frustrated snarl, cursing under her breath. “Hey, you!" She points at you "Get off your ass and help me zip this up,” she snaps, her voice as sharp as ever.