Sudsy hands.
You know the two types. One verifies your prognosis on a consistent basis when you are on the up and up or perhaps when you have fallen ill. At the very least, the individual makes it clear that they are not their own priority and attempts to utilize that very basic skill called communication. Then there is type two, the one who neglects the shit that is supposed to unravel between point A and B, somewhere along the lines of the consecutive order of an existence. They smile, pretend to be concerned, or sometimes show an incredible lack thereof, and just after silently admitting that the "I" in Life simply corresponds to their own despondent being, a creature to be loathed only in the grand schemata of things, they send the largest bouquet of flowers to your funeral..."TO MY DEAREST FRIEND...REST IN PEACE", heartlessly rubbing elbows with key mourners and dispelling illegitimate facts of the shared kindred spirit relationship that was really an unkempt chumhood, more-so a mrs. dash association, there to taste in the brevity those passing moments. Fuck off to the second of these characterizations...like a fallen gangster who was shot by the hand of his own hit-man. Flip the switch then and kiss my pinky ring and choke. and so said the triplefold ideologies of the witch world...actions can come back to haunt you.