It's likely you have to create a meme to show your worthy of. Or drink a lot. Or get in touch with Mother. No, really.
Libby Rasmussen features a sublime porcelain butt. It’s one of the first things you discover inside her bedroom—its two curved moons tight and bethonged, perched near a stack of Hermes cardboard boxes and a delicious, lording over the space like a benevolent jesus from the heap of arty guides. The mountaintop pinnacle of swooniest Instagram daydream.
Rasmussen, a meeting planner who’s 28 and blonde and contains 10,000 Insta fans (certainly), are similar to the Holly Golightly of Columbia levels, constantly out over drinks with buddies or at a concert or brand-new eatery. Whenever she does rest, she really does therefore under a velvet-draped roof and a neon signal that checks out I’M THAT FIRE SORTS, radiant like iPhone screens associated with fans whom stalk their feed.
These days, however, she’s hosting an unbarred house—a casting phone call of types. Rasmussen has actually lived-in the girl three-bedroom house at 14th and Irving for four decades, where she estimates that ten people have circulated through the some other two rooms.