Friday, June 25

Howie the little girl holds up her pet old man head and looks at it. Really looks at it hard and tries to pretend she's never met her best friend in the world before. She wonders what he looked like alive, and is glad he doesn't look that way. His eyes would all be moving around and his mouth would be talking all the time. He might even have some dumb body that would make it hard for Howie to carry him around under her arm. And she would have to worry about dressing him and making sure his fingernails were clipped. And if he were alive, he might go wandering off. One of Howie's favorite things about her bestest friend is that she always knows where he is.

She likes his eyes all milky and vacant. She likes his face completely expressionless, slack, and a little puffy. She likes the green tint to his skin and the rotting smell that keeps getting worse no matter how much of her mom's perfume she sprays him with.

She loves her pet old man head exactly as he is, and she wouldn't have him any other way.

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