I’m not a daredevil. If anything, I’m a pee-myself-a-little-then-hesitate-and-try-to-make-up-an-excuse-to-never-do-it-like-ever sort of girl. I’m a refraindevil. So when I found myself scooching across a clear glass slide on a gray mat, 70 floors above the downtown Los Angeles’s bustling and hustling 5th and Flower intersection, I looked down and murmured a well-deserved “What in the fuck . . .”

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