When I was little, I had a matchstick house that I really loved. And then a boy called Misha who was a little sociopath destroyed it. And I plastered the super sticky Soviet version of Play-Doh (called plastilin) on his hair, and he had to have his hair shaved off because it was famous for never coming out of one’s hair. It was Soviet, which means aimed at causing the most aggravation.
I’m not exaggerating Misha’s sociopathy. He was notorious for torturing kittens in high school, burning them alive for fun. And in adulthood he became a career criminal. His mom was seriously mentally unstable, so it’s not surprising.
I told N this story once, and he remembered and started searching until he found this matchstick house on eBay and bought it for me. It’s pretty sturdy, too, so no sociopathic boy can destroy it, even if I were in the mood to have one over. Which I’m obviously not. It was years ago that I told N this story.
Yes, it’s yet another post about N’s and mine annoying cuteness.