It's wicked to mock the afflicted

"I don't believe in reincarnation," the small girl began the conversation as she sat down with our drinks then continued, "but sometimes I think I was once a fuedal lord. A real fat disgusting lump of a man. My hair is balding at the top but is long and wirey with strands a grey running through it. I imagine myself eating whole legs of game. My fingers and beard are wet with grease fat. I imagine my husband is there too but he's a very plain and mousy wench but he has a fantastic set of tits. I'll order him to bring me a drink and when he draws close I put my hands between his cleavage and slap his breasts around like two dangling wine skins. Sometimes, when we are sitting on the couch watching telly. I'll lean over and slap around his imaginary breasts. He hates that." Most of the time I can contribute to the conversation with an anecdote of my own. This time I was caught short.