The Butcher’s friend is coming to visit, which has put him in the mood to clean out the gutters, trim the bushes and, he claims, clean the house. Things like this make me wish the Butcher were more promiscuous. Sure, this friend gets clean gutters. Might there not be some woman out there who would finally get my garage cleaned up?
Oh. my. god. Do you think there’s someone out there, somewhere, who might make the Butcher trim the yard?!
If you have ever considered smooching the Butcher and have not, I hope you sleep well knowing you could be the reason my yard hasn’t been trimmed in two years.
Did I tell you all I have a witch’s tit? I’m getting it cut off in a couple of weeks. But I feel like I can now tell you the true meaning of the term “colder than a witch’s tit.” Because the thing does get creepily cold. I don’t think it has any blood going to it–it definitely doesn’t have any feeling. I can pinch it as hard as I can between my fingernails and don’t feel anything and don’t draw blood–and there are times when I touch it and it is so cold. It’s like touching a corpse, if you’ve ever done that. You’d think it’d be at room temperature or slightly warming, seeing as how it’s sitting between a warm body and the room, but no. No. It’s often cold to the touch.
And yet, out of morbid curiosity, I can’t quit touching it. And thinking, “Wow, this is what all of me will feel like when I’m dead. This is literally what my skin feels like absent pumping blood.” It’s both really distressing and really fascinating.
And weird to think that, in some eras, if I were accused of witchcraft, there’s the proof–the place where I suckle the Devil.
How’s that for heebie jeebies?