She would really cut into you with that breath. That combined with the NHS Specs, peanut teeth, the five bellies and scabrous skin of a middle aged man who got handy with the batter would make it obvious your dealing with the human equivalent of a haemorrhoid. Given the gift of gravy blanched speech, I feel my senses impair when talking to her. I can smell her words, and hear her lips. Coincidentally, the only pair of lips with cellulite…the same pair that conceal the peanut teeth which chatter to a close after you have indulged in a game of ‘Guess the variety of Pot Noodle’’ with her sprawling, odorous sentences. When annoyed, her face can transmogrify into a snout. An entire fucking snout…a round, flabby, pink bum of a face.
A face which homes an army of mammoth boils, which occasionally nestle down into her bacon grease pores under a layer of crackling on the outer parameter of her skull.
Regardless of this, I adore my girlfriend.