of course, most of the time everything worth paying attention to looks like a bruise against porcelin skin. it stands out but you can't speak about it in polite company. you can't talk about it & you can't take your eyes off it. you can poke it really hard with your finger if you are a doctor or a goblin, though. you've got to inspect the meat, you understand. you've got to take out your scale & measure out powder grain by grain. you're an apothacary & a schizophrenic. & dammit there is more on the line than whether or not you get a good night's sleep, dammit. see, i've got this Device, this grand guignol ("the insane women decide that a cuckoo bird is imprisoned in louise's head and and one gouges out her eye with a knitting needle") gizmo, & a spider on a stringer. i'm ready for anything! stiff upper lip & all that. because, right, you can hide a razor blade almost anywhere! hide it in the laundry chute! or in a bucket of chum! oh see now that is going to take up all my wee little brain cells for the rest of the evening. i want to mix up a package of razor blades in a bucket of blood & make sharks get all cut up on the inside. razzle-frazting stupid old sharks, being older than me & everything. see if i sulk! i'll put tricks in your halloween candy, sharks! you'll learn your fucking lesson if it is the last thing i do.