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Description : Ruined
No one told me that the reason my brand-new pair of Christian Louboutins are called killer is because they are actually going to kill me before the day is over.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. What else should I expect from a pair of five-inch ruby-red stilettos? Even ones thate with the promise offort? After all, every woman knows that after a few hours and a few miles, even the mostfortable heels be instruments of torture.

Even I know that, and that’s saying something considering I spend most of my life in old jeans and older T-shirts. And ballet flats. I’m a big fan of ballet flats. Right now I’d pretty much sell my soul for a pair of them.

Which is why I’d planned to wear a totally sensible pair of shoes today. Navy open-toed pumps with a two-inch heel that perfectly match the five-hundred-dollar suit I’m wearing. It’s the same suit I scrimped and saved for for the better part of last semester, and it’s the same suit that helped get me the position I started this morning. My dream job. Technically, I suppose it isn’t actually a job, as I’m not getting paid for it—a salary is the defining quality of being employed, after all—but it is an internship. In the intellectual property department of the most innovative and fastest-growing biomedical corporation in the country. The world, even. If that isn’t a job and a damn good one, I don’t know what is.

But when I laid the whole outfit out on my bed last night, checking the individual pieces for any stains or tears or wrinkles or scuffs—anything that might give me away as the poor college student I am instead of the ambitious and hardworking future lawyer I intend to be—my best friend and roommate was horrified by my choice of footwear. She’d insisted that a suit as kick-ass...