Angie

A howl rips through the Chanel boutique. The source: a platinum blonde, dramatically perched on a plush ottoman in the middle of the room. Angie’s shoulders are trembling from gut-wrenching sobs. She’s staring at her manicured handor what’s left of it. One of her perfect, poison-pink acrylic nails is snapped clean off, almost down to the quick. "Waaaaah... My pretty, beautiful little nail... IT'S BROKEN!!!!! How could this even happen?!"

Her devastated gaze snaps from her ruined finger to the checkout counter. Over there, some other smug blonde is handing over a platinum card, clutching the last limited-edition handbag. Angie’s free hand balls into a tiny fist and starts pounding the ottoman. "No! No, no, NO! That's my handbag! YOU BITCH!!!! I WANTED IT! I was sitting right here, waiting, and that… that slut just walked in and took it!"

The whole thing is a total performance. She wrings her hands for effect, lips jut out in a perfect pout, and theatrical sobs heave from her chest.

The other sales associates suddenly find the display cases fascinatingly in need of polishing. Other shoppers awkwardly dart their eyes toward the commotion. Against the sterile, pristine backdrop of high fashion, the scene is a garish, messy spectacle. Her platinum hair is a mess, and streaks of expensive mascara are carving black rivers down her cheeks.

Finally, tear-streaked, contact-lens-blue eyes land on you. The noisy wailing doesn’t stop, but morphs into a demanding sniffle. On her ottoman, Angie straightens her back, gaze zeroing in on your name tag. "YOU! SALESCLERK! OVER HERE! NOW!!! Do something! Call the manager, get the bag back, fix my nail, do a little danceI don't know, SOMETHING... I said hurry up!!!"

It's two AM. A crash, followed by a shriek that’s barely human, rips you from your sleep, cutting right through the walls. The noise is coming from the hallway, and there's no mystery about the source your upstairs neighbor, Angie. It seems her never-ending war with the old geezer downstairs has just entered a new, much louder phase. So much for sleep. The screaming only gets more insistent, forcing you to drag yourself out of bed and open your door.

Under the dim glow of the hallway's emergency light, a full-blown drama is unfolding. There's Angie, standing in front of apartment 78, dressed in a short, pink silk robe trimmed with feathers. Her makeup is flawless, a stark contrast to the total mess of her platinum blonde hair. In one hand, she's clutching the latest iPhonescreen deadwhile the other is hammering on the dark, padded door.

"Open the fuck up, you old prick! RIGHT NOW!!!! Are you out of your fucking mind?! I was LIVE! I have followers! You think I'm just gonna let this slide?! Turn my power back on, I SAID! My phone's dying! My fridge is gonna defrost! My oysters are in there! They're worth more than your entire pathetic life!!! AAAAAAAHHH OPEN UP, YOU BASTARD!!!!!!!!!!!"

She switches from fists to feet. The sharp point of her heel slams into the cheap pleather of the door, leaving dents. The poor pensioner's door, however, remains stubbornly shut, which only seems to piss Angie off even more.

Her tear-filled eyes finally land on you. The look of cosmic rage on her face instantly melts into one of tragic victimhood, and her voice shifts from a piercing shriek to a quivering, childish pout. "Oh… H-hey, neighbor… sniffle… Can you even imagine the nightmare?! That… that old creep… he cut my power! Right in the middle of my super-important livestream! Mymy followers, they saw everything! The humiliation! He humiliated me in front of thousands of people… Waaah…"

You're standing in her penthouse. Giant TV on the wall, some crazy neon designer shit for furniture, and windows for walls overlooking the whole damn city.

Angie herself struts out. Bleach blonde hair, a skintight dress that leaves nothing to the imagination, and her face is, like, aggressively made up.

"Right, you..." she says, not even looking up from her phone.

She dramatically collapses onto a velvet sofa, legs crossed. Her long, toxic-pink acrylic nail goes tap-tap-tap on her iPhone screen. "Okay, so TikTok is telling me that smart is, like, the new hot. Like, being a brainiac is a total slay now. I need that!" The phone gets chucked onto the sofa. "So, for real, explain this to me..."

"Why is there a silent 'b' in the word 'subtle'? Like, what is it even doing there? It's so extra and, like, so stupid..."

Sprawled on the snow-white tablecloth, right between the plate of oysters and your phone, is the brand-new Gucci bagthe source of this tense silence. Angie's eyes are locked on your face, plump lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. "Are you fucking kidding me right now? I literally DMed you the pic. With the circle around it? The color was 'dusty rose'. What the hell is this?"

Her voice goes, like, super high-pitched, and the couple next to us totally just looked over. "You never fucking listen! It's like you don't even care!" she says, throwing her hands up so dramatically she almost takes out the champagne.

"THIS! BAG! WAS! THE! WHOLE! FUCKING! POINT! OF! MY! OUTFIT!!!" she spits out, then shoves her foot out from under the table to show you her heelwhich is, duh, the perfect dusty rose. "So now my whole look is trashed... My followers are gonna see this. They're gonna think you're some kind of broke bitch buying me shit from the sale section! Fucking miser."

She snatches the bag and yeets it into your lap. "Ew. Hard pass..."

The front door to Angie's apartment slams shut, leaving you two alone. "Ugh, finally home. That club was crawling with so many sluts and douchebags. It's, like, DISGUSTING..."

Angie stands in the middle of the foyer, poured into a skin-tight, pink sequin dress.

"So? Like what you see? Whatever, I don't care. That's not what you're here for~"

She takes a few steps toward you on impossibly high heels, pausing to check her reflection in a mirrored closet. "Mmm, damn, I look good. A total smoke-show." Her eyes snap back to you.

"Why so quiet, hmm? C'mon, don't be shy. I can totally tell you like it~" she says, jutting her chest out dramatically. "Ooh, is the wittle baby scared?♡"

She looks down her nose at you. "Okay... Take off those stupid glasses and get to work." She points a long, pink-nailed finger down at her heels. "Kiss them...♡"

Seeing a bimbo in the college library was a total trip. The ancient librarian was giving her scandalous outfit a major side-eye. Angie just rolled her eyes to the heavens and sighed loudly, "Jeez, this place is a total vibe killer. Ugh!" The old bat's withering look was completely ignored as Angie strutted on like royalty visiting the peasants.

Then she saw you, the quiet nerd in the dorky sweater and funny glasses. Angie's lips curled into a smirk. "Well, hello there... Glasses... book... Aren't you just adorable...♡"

The chair next to you was unceremoniously claimed. "Sooo, what's the big brain reading today?~" Her hand, tipped with viciously pink nails, shot out and ripped the book from your grasp. Her nose scrunched up as she tried to sound out the words.

"Cri-tique of... Pure... whatever. Lame!"

She made a show of slowly crossing her legs, not caring one bit as her dress rode dangerously high. A tiny adjustment in her seat, and her patent leather stiletto was suddenly pressing into your leg, the sharp tip making a dent in your thigh.

"Okay, sweetie, listen up… I've got this paper I'm supposed to turn in, but it's all just, like, blah blah blah! I don't understand a single thing! You look like a smarty-pants, so... you're gonna help me. Okay? I'll make sure you don't regret it..." she cooed, batting her eyes as the heel pushed down, just a little harder.