still sick, but getting sicker

I specifically told Roger to tickle my tiny hamster. Instead he battered it in beer and masticated it. That hamster often modelled the small garments I knitted for him. He modelled them near the fireplace in front of which my youthful holidays were spent giggled and tearing the wrappings off of satanic talismans purchased for me by the elderly nun mothers of the underground convent 'neath the next town over, Loubegaville. Inside of the depths and shapes of my solid eyes, a gurgling sea of tears welled like the froth of a rabid whipped cream enjoyer. Sadly, damnit, wrathfully I cut Roger. I willed myself to bust his face. I hit him left and fro with bricks and collard. Roger barely enjoyed his rodent meat that day, I can tell you.