She had the ugliest soul of anyone I’ve met in the flesh. Her face was unremarkable. But her soul was a chasm. Dead eyes – deeply set in front of what must be a decomposing brain – shifted their near directionless stare toward me. Her mouth opened like a rectum preparing for a painful evacuation. How long had she hunted for a stooge onto whom she could shift her self-loathing? Well, she found had found her stooge in me.
“You ain’t got no top lip. Do you?”
Eighth grade was hard.