My town is a friendly place. I get food and a lot of positive physical contact. A lady at the auto body shop says my hair is like oily feathers. A tree surgeon says I have healthy phloem and won't explain exactly what he means by that.
A puckered old gentleman calls me "sweet ham" and says that when he's agitated, he soothes himself by imagining my pillowy skin pierced by something sharp and oozing sweet tar. My little body in its current swollen and moistened form delights people.