To my right conspire and judge two generations of yellow haired magazine bison, grazing on celebrity woe.
‘Look! She looks like a boy now’
Insists the daughter thrusting a maliciously captured glossy square at her mother’s ravenous eyes.
‘She’ll never be happy.’
Proclaims the elder bison with a satisfying splurge of fabricated remorse, just as might react a human.
An apathetic harvest of shallow twisted fun.
‘And look at her nose; it was fine before she got that done.’