As I may or may not have mentioned – probably didn’t – I have a little sister. A little sister who is doing that whole Scandinavian tall thing that I never got the hang of. We’ll call her V.
When we were kids, V developed a somewhat unusual interest: zits. She was fascinated by the whole pimple-popping-process. As soon as one appeared on her face, she’d kill it off and emerge from the bathroom with fresh claw marks on her skin. So far she wasn’t so very much unlike most teens, myself included, but the thing that set her apart, was the fact that once she had squeezed her own zits into oblivion, she started looking around for other people’s.
There was this one summer where her somewhat unusual hobby peaked. And at that particular time, I was lucky enough to have a tiny pimple on my forehead. To regular people like you (possibly) and me, it would be barely noticeable, but to someone like V, it stuck out on my face like a howling, red siren.
After a great deal of begging and pleading, she still hadn’t succeeded in getting her hands on it. V, the zit serial killer was getting desperate for her next casualty.
One rainy day, while I was sitting in the couch watching some mundane teen show, she decided to make her move. Without a sound she slipped down behind the sofa, where she waited quietly for a moment before pouncing.
Have you ever seen Alien? You know that part where the squid-hand-monster-thingy comes out of the egg and latches itself to some screaming victims face? It was like that. I did, however, manage to fight her off before she could lay her eggs inside my chest.
These days she claims to limit the hobby to her husband. Poor bastard.