“I’m always like, More, more, more, more, more, more. Doing it overload,” says Charli XCX. “But this week has been … a lot.”
It’s a Wednesday morning in late July, less than 72 hours after she offhandedly tweeted “kamala IS brat,” accidentally redefining an entire presidential campaign, and Charli has invited me to a Le Labo–scented spa in West Hollywood to decompress. Her assistant booked us a private room for an hour under “Charlotte,” the 32-year-old British artist’s real name, which pretty much no one remembers anymore. She’s dealing with a performance-related neck injury — “It flares up a lot when I’m stressed” — and things have been a bit stressful lately. Charli arrived in her black Porsche 911, wearing knee-high leather boots and big bitchy Khaite sunglasses; she was giving Balenciaga walk of shame, though she insists she didn’t go out last night.
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