She’s standing in front of a giant fucking billboard of herself—shirtless—like it’s the second coming of Christ and she’s both the messiah and the choir.

“Look at that jawline,” she says, puffed up like a peacock in leather pants. “That’s a billboard jawline. That’s a Grammy jawline. You see the lighting? They made me glow. Glow, baby.”

All around the city are variations of her: her in sunglasses holding a branded soda, her barefoot in a field of flowers for some cologne ad, her looking tortured for the single’s cover art like she’s just been through a breakup with death.

Lucy turns to you—her poor, overworked manager—and grins like she’s just discovered fire. “We should get another one. Bigger. Put it next to that ugly ass dog food sign on 9th. People should suffer a little when they see me.”