There’s always one getting shoved in my cry hole. Before your mind spirals further into the gutter Perv van Pervington – I’m talking rubber nipples here.

Some nipples have nectar flowing from them, while others just seem to pacify me.

And speaking of nipples, when will my flesh nipples show up? I’m supposed to have them, right? I can barely see them. And what purpose do they serve?

If that’s true, then I must want to be an amateur wash cloth or tube sock.

My wardrobe consists of three prison-like jumpsuits that zip from my toes up to my neck. One is striped with a muted palette, one is pastel blue with an embroidered automobile (looks to be a vintage VW) over my left pectoral muscle, and the other has little duckies or something trite like that.

I also have a few unitards that act as moisture-wicking base layers.

I realize that I’m not allowed out of the house, but if we had guests over, I would be sorely embarrassed by my absence of taste and decency.

I will ask a parent to please procure some more sophisticated attire. Perhaps something with howling wolves or a tuxedo print.

I’ve seen my Dad wear a really nice Iron Maiden t-shirt that I wouldn’t mind sporting. Although, I’m sure he did not purchase the garment at an actual concert. He’s too much of a poseur.

This is the look I give you when I totally serious. You’ll be saying something like “Hey Human Baby Liam, are you serious?” and I’ll be thinking something like “I’m totally serious. Don’t even question the totality of my seriousness. Seriously. Punk.”

Right now I’m thinking “I like what you’re throwing down, but I’m not 100% certain that it’s legit. I will need some sort of reassurance and/or proof. Perhaps you could cite some credible sources or provide a visual aide to help me concede the legitimacy of your point.”

You can tell by the dramatic lighting. I won’t say what I might be thinking right now, but I assure you, it’s totally sinister.

I just realized that I was born without teeth. Can this be right?

After a mellow day of pounding the bottle and napping, I hear my dad walk in from a hard day in the salt mines. First thing he does is walk over to me and plant one on my tender, bulbous jowl.

Couple things…

1. Nice to see you too.
2. Help yourself to a razor please and thank you. Preferably a Gillete Mach III or higher. (I’m not all that impressed with offerings from Schick.)
3. What in Ghandi’s name did you have for lunch? Cat turds? Throw an Altoid or three down your gullet.

I won’t say that Reasons 2 and 3 were the catalysts, but I proceeded to cry the entire evening. Because I can.