. . . just me then.
A mother pushing along a pram with her offspring tucked safely inside. The gas pedal instead of the brake. What sound they would make? Would it be a liquid, wet concussion as flesh gave way to metal? Or would it be a blunt, rigid sound? Maybe the crack of snapping bones?
A pretty man, waiting in line at the grocery store with a gallon of milk and two frozen pizzas. Would he be prettier with his skin stretched over bone, blossoming blood beneath the pale surface? Quilted welts like a tapestry. Would he like it? Would I want him to?
Human head in a microwave, fingers bobbing in the crock pot. Would the eyes pop? Or just cook like hard boiled eggs? Homo Sapien stew. The other white meat. Lightly flavored with a touch of turmeric. And carrots.
Exempt from psychosis, professional courtesy, that's me. I'm not sure if I should be perturbed, amused, or roll my eyes at the level of pretentious gothness that I'm spewing. Bah.
I'm not even having a particularly bad day. I'm just feeling sorta . . . graphic.
I think I need to write some gut-clenching, stomach-churning horror.