Under the filthiest, stinkingest socks dwelt a terrified, mortified person of questionable species. He might have been an insect, but perhaps not, since the exoskeleton was a soft and plush little cushion, like a tiny upholstered footstool capable of locomotion.
I found him for the purpose of this interview as he was combing chalky dust through his hair, which I seized on as the point of my lead question: “What was he doing with his hair and how could it be improved?” He confessed to never having watched the Learning Channel and to never reading a how-to article on the subject of hair maintenance, so I was flabbergasted to say the least. His face was slathered in burgundy grease that seemed like molasses but on closer examination proved to be a form of mold.
hen Frances had to speak publicly, her legs shook. As a kid, she had grown faster up than she had out, and it felt like two wooden stilts extended from her hipbones. “Growing like a weed!” her mother would laugh into the phone. “Our Frances, the weed.” She had never wanted to be a weed and she didn’t much care for dandelions. 
