You thought you'd get your full 20 minutes of foot worship today, but after yesterday's pathetic performance, I'm flipping the script. I lounge back, ignoring you completely while slipping on my foot mask—your view blocked, nothing but denial as I pamper my soles in secret. Watch the clock tick by in agonizing tease, your frustration building with every ignored glance. Finally, I peel it off to reveal my feet glistening, slick and moisturized to perfection, before sliding into soft socks right out of reach. This is what lazy worship earns you—edged and denied. How badly do you wish you'd done better next time?
