His stuffing was a perfectly revolting mixture of ground newsprint and mushrooms. Okay, actually it was styrofoam chips and...waste fiber? Kapok? Asbestos? When I start erupting in tumours, we'll know. Horrible, horrible stuff. Mercifully it was free of swarming insects, gobs of mold, petrified baby mice, or flesh-eating scarabs. But they were there in my mind, and that's really all that matters. It took an hour and three plastic grocery bags to get it all out. Brown looked desperately unhappy, but I can't imagine he's not glad to be rid of that stuff.
Then I took him down and put him in the washing machine, apologizing the whole time. He was very small without stuffing. I felt horribly guilty, the way that you do when you have to put an old and loyal friend to possible death. Like Darth Vader throttling an Admiral, except, y'know, not evil.
Your OTP is not better than mine. Your grammar is not better than mine. Your brains are not tasty at all. You have raped my fandom by reviewing like this. Please do the world a favour and die.
-- rightclawsouth in fanficrants