Miranda didn’t trust her mirrors so she crawled out of herself for an objective look. It was a nasty trip, through a tight network of brain worms, past the eyes, down the nose. If she had known the route was going to be so twisted and sticky, she would not have worn her cocktail shoes, as they kept sinking into all sorts of matter, and getting tripped up by hairs that wound around her stilettos.
When she finally made it through, and slid down her upper lip to the floor, an unexpectedly swift and treacherous fall due to high gloss lipstick, she looked up and took stock of her appearance.
It did not impress her.
So she turned to flee only to trip on a mule and fall flat on her back.
The standing Miranda, who was in the process of preparing for a night out, stepped forward to grab a clutch, and promptly impaled her supine self on a heel, whereupon she was possessed by such an inexplicable sense of relief, that she removed her shoes and tossed them in the trash.
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