she was one of those people who was very good at faking an interest in children. oooh that's quite lovely she'd moo at the child's inept little scribbles, allthewhile thinking of just how easily she could toss it into the fireplace or even through a thin window, for it was still young and quite small and floppy and she reckoned light enough for a woman of her size and strength to hurl across the room several yards or more. i love women that tell me how much they paid for pieces of clothing that they're wearing, after i compliment them on it. it makes me feel like i am their friend, or could be. she opened the drawer and found the preserved little head from last week: do you mind if i use this for something? for i enjoy scrubbing furiously with their furry little furry heads, the grease just comes straight off, you see? simply loverly, i think this must be one of those "make up your own caption" sorts of photos,you know, the ones with the compromising picturegraph of a little creature in peril and the corresponding blank space in which to fill in a clever or amusing play-on-words, as for this one she filled in, "i enjoy their little fur heads but not the rest" and was very smug about it even when noone else understood her humour joke. nevertheless, -----> the tumor continued to grow behind her knee, forming a foamy likeness of a pop culture religious icon that certain religious followers might possibly perceive as being a meaningful omen rather than a foaming runaway mass of cancerous cells. the dutiful scrubbing of their little heads over its darkening shape was doing less and less good and she decided that obviously this was because the furry heads were of low quality and she needed not only more of them but higher quality ones, ones with better hair-dos and ones with richer skin and cleaner ears and purer eyes from which to stare out at nothing anymore but the endless ballooning back of her knee, scrub scrub scrub.