Kitty Quinn looks down at you and laughs to herself before flicking you off. Oh, my god. Seriously? Are we really doing this? You're actually going to sit there and obsess over my feet? You are such a predictable little disappointment, but fine. Since I'm feeling charitable—and because I know you're utterly useless without my explicit instruction—I'll indulge your pathetic little fixation. Just look at these. See these? They're my perfect size 6.5 feet, and yes, they’re basically flawless. I barely pay attention to them because they just are this pretty, unlike literally anything on you. And the shoes? Of course, they’re slides—the classic Adidas black ones with the three perfect white stripes, the classic navy blue & white Adidas slides with the massaging nubs, and the snug tight fit rose gold Nike slides. They’re effortlessly cool, exactly like me, and they just dangle there, barely holding onto my heel, like I can barely be bothered to keep them on. I can kick them off with the slightest flick of my ankle. Such a casual, unbothered movement. The slide hits the pavement with a soft thwack—a sound that announces my indifference to the entire planet and little losers like you. See my toes? They’re perfect, every nail is impeccably painted a chic, bright red. They're so clean and soft—they look like they've never done an honest day's work in their life, which is obviously true. And they're resting right there, just inches from the ground, yet they're still so far above you and whatever grimy spot you're watching this from. Now go on, obsess over them, because it’s the closest a loser like you will ever get to perfection. I'm bored now, you should go.
