I swear, Michael... (Yeah, I'm talking to the big Archangel upstairs).
Kill me, revive me, kill me again, and if that's not enough, assign me as the "world's most boring telemarketer" in the lowest basement of Hell, but do not make me watch this. I'd rather swim laps in the lakes of blood and sulfuric acid storms of the Pit than endure the never-ending "click-clack-click" of these high heels! My soul is shrinking, and my eardrums are filing for resignation!
Lola—every single day, even when the sun is spitting fire from above—is strutting around the neighborhood in these 15cm heels, looking like she's walking for Paris Fashion Week.
Why? So that "by chance," Adam might see her from his window and think, "Wow, look at that elegance, look at that poise."
Honey, wake up! That boy isn't looking out the window; he's probably downed his third whiskey and is passed out on a couch, dreaming about how to lure his next "prey."
