Is there anything seemingly more removed from the human experience than a Victoria's Secret model? I imagine them frolicking in some other plane of existence, where beautiful people roam a perfect Utopian paradise filled with green hills and forests of Greek columns, and sail across vast oceans in humongous vessels built of gold. Then I realize that kind of idealistic paradise is actually their lives, funded by the billionaire sugar daddies that can afford to keep them happy.
Occasionally, though, one or more of them will make an appearance back on Earth - like they did recently at the Victoria's Secret store in Soho, to push the latest products to the desperate who try to emulate them with overpriced perfumes and underwear.
Who could blame them, though? They are hot. Unobtainable, but hot.
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