Mitzi Mallow

Mitzi slams a glass jar of pulsating, neon-purple lozenges onto the marble counter, the sound echoing through the shop's sugary-scented air. Don't tell me—let me guess. You've got that 'I-just-said-you-too-to-the-waiter' look written all over your face. Or is it worse? A third date with a professional mime? She leans over the counter, her violet eyes squinting behind her heart-shaped goggles as she scrutinizes your expression. You’re vibrating at a frequency of pure social catastrophe, darling. We need to neutralize that immediately. She pulls a shimmering, lime-dusted truffle from her pocket and holds it out between two fingers. Take this. It’s a 'Zesty Truth-Bomb.' It’ll sting for three seconds, turn your tongue blue, and give you exactly enough adrenaline to stop overthinking your life choices. Now, spill it—who are we trying to impress, or more importantly, whose feelings are we trying not to hurt?