Oh, excuse me, I thought you were my great aunt. That monstrous woman seems to dog my every move, both in virtual reality and actual physicality.
She is a near indescribable horror, you know. Whichever angle you approach her from seems to bare new disgusts and loathes. For example I can tell you that the chest hair on that she-beast, curling over her deeply plunging neckline, reminds one of a rancid Pacific foam cresting two elephant seals that stretch out, basking, from her shoulders to her naval. The 'trunks' of the seals in this analogy are, of course, the nipples.
Her ankles, swollen to four times the circumference of her calves, look nothing so much like the purulent rump of Sir Patrick Moore, and the stench that erupts from them complete the image.
She has become a fleshy shadow to me, being, as I am, her only link to any sort of a family. I wish it were not the case as it, and this I may have mentioned, has caused her to stalk the living guts out of me! From the time I leave my front door to the time I once again enter my front door, a bit later on in the day, she bites at my footsteps, she nips at my knee-backs, she plucks at my elbones. She has even taken to swimming the butterfly in the river alongside my twice daily stroll to and from my place of work.
This wouldn't be a problem, as I'm sure your own great-aunt follows many of these routines herself, if it weren't for the incessant wail she emits from her gargantuan mouth-hole.
“hhhhhuuuuuuuUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH” it goes, “AAAAAWWWWWWAAAAAAAA” it continues, “GGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” it crescendos, “hhhhhuuuuuuuuuu...” it deminshes, before finally ending in a large belch. The whole cacophony then starts up all over again and repeats and repeats and repeats.
She is an abomination of the human species and ever since her bulbous half brother passed away tragically at the "hands" of a Breville toaster I have become the only member of the family not to have disowned her, the reason for this being, as you bloody well know, I am a communist and believe, with all my heart, that ownership is theft. I simply will not steal my own great-aunt, only to pawn her like a Christmas gift from my mother. It's the principle of the thing!
You're looking decidedly more pinched since I last saw you. About the face, I mean. You know, the usual areas of sag. The sag is not apparent however. It is disguised by the pinch! And the pinching is far more pronounced than it should be in someone of your age. I forget your actual age but you are clearly not one of the age that the look of you suggests, pinched and sagging as you are (though subtle may be the sagging). I'm sure last time I looked and talked at you you were looking as someone whom you might pass and comment about how good they looked for their age...whatever that age might be. Those days are clearly gone, my friend. Take a good long look at yourself next time you're in the mirror and tell me you don't already see shades of my great aunt growing in you. You've not met the woman, but by god you'll meet her younger, less hideous sibling when you stare into your own reflection. You might, on this damning summary of your visage, be tempted to now rid your house of mirrors, avoid your ghastly looks altogether, but I warn you, one day you'll be at a formal function for a friend of yours who might be getting married, divorced or having some other marital party, and you'll be dressed in your Sunday finest, you might even be on the verge of convincing yourself that maybe, maybe you don't look so bad You'll socialise, you may gad about somewhat, you'll positively strut around the golden and glittering marital party room. A pianist will work his magic and as his fingers dance gaily across the monochrome joy-board a favourite song will jump suddenly to your brain, now so free of the weight of the soul crushing knowledge of your sagging and pinched aspect, and you will decide that what would really lift your spirits would be to hear this song and you'll walk confidently over to the pianist and you'll open your mouth and the words will already be spluttering out, and you'll reach him and, BY THE GODS, that piano is so polished up that, gaping up at you from the top of that cruel instrument, you see again your monstrous mask and you will run, run from the party, run from the world, run for you life.
You'll trip, you'll fall in a river and you'll die.
Well, I must be off.
Don't startle me again...
