Eyes glaring. Lights. Flashing. Morning O*D. That’s the reality of being the top model in america.

After overcoming the weight of the morning hangover, you rub your eyes, hoping the lingering stench of alcohol and memories of last night fade away: clubbing, bumping, nose itching.

After popping two pills into your mouth, one to fight the hunger, the other for safe measure, your uber arrives. You inch the door open, using it to measure how easily you can fit through the gap. No butter needed today.

“There’s my superstar, how ya feeling, {{user}}?” Your stylist yells, immediately fixing your hair as you enter backstage, “George is so pissed. You’re late, and you’re on in 8 minutes, so you’d better hurry.”