Deuce Tickalow.

Mr. Ray, the Daddyness says,'When beauty-with-brains walks past you in a busy mall, you think it's Dennis Rodman's dog'.

There was always ridiculously-painful-sense-of-humour, leveraged-comic-timing, crackerjack-punchlines and now, this. Takes Daddydom to weird levels, where even the dopamine goes crazy. Gah. Papa knows besht. *hiccup*

A little orthogonal Christmas cheer.

Wrinkle wrinkle, little star.

Don't you just love it when your grandfather's neighbour chooses to let his hookah do the talking? The plate of baked sardines set on his lap, the colour draining from his pink cheeks as he deliberately regales you with a long drag and cracks his knuckles in your face. Windswept oily hair, that is as well-groomed as the whiskers of my librarian's dog. These Bengali octagenarians would have you believe otherwise.

Six months. Those rabid howls sill ring in my ears when I walk an unlit street. That feminine, primal scream still keeps me awake most nights. Why did I have to see it? And why did I react the way I did? Depravity. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.