I don't care for mannequins. At all. On a scale of 1 to 10 they're just creepy and undeserving of a number less than a kerjillion.
Worse was when I worked up the courage to touch one, and her hand fell off. Off. In my hand.
Because several large retailers left Milwaukee during my childhood, there was also no end of dismembered mannequin bits lying around abandoned storefront displays.
|How you doin'?|
Damn, now that I re-read this, it's amazing I made it to adulthood as sanely as I did. That said, I'll save the discussion of how I couldn't touch the pages in my National Geographic 'How Animals Hide' book because of the insects on them.
It might just be amazing that I made it to adulthood, period.