Jim Kelly Must be Embarassed

As noted by the indispensable Bostonist, it seems Law & Order SVU has added an NFL theme to its 'ripped from the headlines' approach to crime drama. The promo for the show, as described by my favorite wenches of journalism:

In an episode titled “The Closet,” a pro football player who wears No. 12, has a cleft chin and a supermodel galpal, plays in a red-and-blue stadium and is “the best quarterback in football” is the prime suspect in a gay murder.

Like you my first thought was: Man, I feel bad for former Buffalo Bills Quarterback Jim Kelly. The description nails him down to the number and the uniform colors!

Would all the closet gay murderers please
raise their hands? Thank you.

Obviously I ruled out Father right away, because surely the episode would have referenced a multiple Superbowl MVP winning QB who heals the downtrodden, lifts the oppressed, and fights evil doers with karate chops.

On an unrelated note, because I am a super genius I practice palindromes for fun. Sometimes instead of letters I use the full words. So instead of words like Racecar, I would do something along the lines of Dick Wolf Wolfs Dick. I know there is an extra "s" in there, but it still looks right to me.

Piggyback. Literally.

You may have seen the now famous picture of me with Father and the Umlaut. What you might not realize is that I am not being carried by the Umlaut, but rather I am carrying her! Using my superior infant strength, I am putting her back in the vehicle that brought Her Skankness to our peaceful villa.

As you can see, Father and I are a perfect team, escorting a drunk and lightheaded Umlaut into a vehicle that will take her away from us at high speed. But every morning, there she is at our front door - passed out, oversexed, with several wallets and reeking of cough syrup. Think of it like the movie Homeward Bound, but instead of a cute dog finding his way home, its a retarded model with cocaine all over her face who can't be kept away.

Growth Note: Sucking on my pacifier actually pacifies others.

Picture Source: Flynet.

Happy Birthday to Me

As you know by the red circle you probably drew on your home calendar, today is the first anniversary of this blog. I have come a long way since I first hooked mother's uterus up with Wi-Fi, and in many ways I already miss the anonymous life I had built for myself in the womb - especially the mini-putt course. Now I am photographed, followed, and besieged for advice and that's just from Chris Simms and the McCown brothers.

I was skeptical at first, but his blog allows me to communicate more directly to you, my masses and minions, about the priorities of my future reign and defend mother and father from baseless attacks. Not to mention the platform it affords me for publishing the truth about the Umlaut and her wallet/father-stealing ways. I must admit, I do not mind the added convenience that the blog lets me multitask. Guess during which sentence I was typing and made doodie. Your move Shiloh, you harlot.


So thank you to the citizens who have participated in the great conversation this blog has begun about if my future rule will be magnifisensational or grandeurilous (trademarks pending). Your unflagging support of Father has sustained me throughout, and makes me think of you less as citizens to be ruled, but rather citiznes eager to be ruled. Maybe we are not so different after all. Even though only one of us poops fabrege eggs.

Growth Note: My taint actually t'is.

Eli Manning Made A Wish

Citizens, you must be beside yourselves with concern over how a single competition that was supposed to be so handily won by the favorites could result in surprise, horror, and tears. And I say to you that I will not rest until a thorough investigation into the ongoings in the Real World/Road Rules Gauntlet III is complete - or at least the season finale. You might also be curious as to how Father's Patriots of New England posted a lower score than the New York/Jersey Giants. I will reveal the truth to you: it was for charity.

You see, there is an organization dedicated to making wishes come true for children who are truly suffering. In this case, that (man-)child was non other than Giants Quarterback Eli Manning, who endures a critical condition of being unable to breathe through his nose. Father was made aware through secret backchannels (I told him with my mind) that were familiar with his previous work with those who experience the same ailment. Eli's one wish was to win the Superest of Bowls and prove to his father, mother, and oddly named siblings Cooper & Peyton that he is capable of equal achievements.

He also wished he could keep his shoulder pads on.

So Father, being the benevolent master of all that he is, decided instead to play the role of frustrated immobile Quarterback who appears at times both over and underwhelmed by the experience of being on the cusp of football history. To be honest, I imagine it was not hard to feign disinterest; after producing me, what is the value of winning 19 games in a row? He is responsible for genetic perfection personified that will one day breathe lifeforce into all creatures. Oh yeah, but 19 games of football is really important. I consumed 19 jars of strained carrots in a row, but you don't see me bragging do you?

Growth Note: My burps are arranged and covered by the London Symphony Orchestra

Not a Face for Radio

A radio station in New York had the preposterous idea that wearing masks in mother's image would "psyche out" Father. The link can be found here, but I will warn you that it may crash your computer browser; No man made machine is equipped to handle the beauty and radiance that a simple picture of mother produces. Nothing could be further from the truth. It will "psych UP" father, propelling him to throw over 50 touchdowns in ONE GAME. Mother's visage transcends the meaning of beauty - it reveals the soul of mankind, holds secrets of ancient civilizations, and is drenched in a love that can only be found in the ceaselessness of ocean tides.

It is the kind of rare elegance that makes Helen of Troy look like a fatty.

In the end though, I think it wise NOT to wear a mask of mother at the game or in the normal course of your everyday life. I had toyed with the idea of implementing this mask as a mandatory face-uniform for all future citizens of my rule, but grudgingly realize it would cause near paralysis across the globe - as people would fall to the ground weeping constantly - moved to tears in an emotional catharsis that existence of a higher power has been revealed to them. Shit, science might come to a complete halt at the revelation that destiny, fate, and a creator of man all exist. I believe that would be unwise, as I have much use for science at this time in my life. For example, Science Friday on NPR is great for nappies.

A Picture Says a Thousand Whores

Let me be clear right from the start: Annie Liebovitz is a damned good photo-taker-person. She's done several famous photshoots and is world renown for her talent and ability. I should know, I see her work every day - instead of looking in mirrors, I have Annie Liebovitz follow me around taking photographs and showing them to me. Why use a mirror when I can use a mirror of the soul? It's OK if you just cried reading that. Imagining the purity of my soul is a tenant of most spiritual awakening programs. It's pretty heavy stuff, I know.

So imagine my surprise when I saw this photograph of the Umlaut with what appears to be an over-ripe, albino Kermit the Frog with sideburns floating through a window towards her:

Photo Credit: Annie "The Mirror" Liebovitz.

Upon further investigation, I see it is indeed an ad campaign for Disney, which clearly is some sort of Hunter S. Thompson-inspired public awareness campaign about drug addiction. Here we see the Umlaut in her natural state of semi-undress amid a bare room in what looks like (judging by the disheveled, greasy bed) a Motel 6; lost in a severe crack-and-Virginia-Slim hallucination of an elderly ballerina dressed as the jolly green giant. As an expert in dreams - mine are painted for me by the ghosts of French Impressionists, you know - I can conclusively say that the old green ballerina represents her desire for money and an easy, vulnerable mark. The Tina Fey fairy shooting from the loins of the green man represents Fairy Dust, and demonstrates her association with scoring dirty meth from servicing unsavory individuals. The open window means anyone can come in at any time; she is undiscriminating and desperate. The bed represents a bed.

In other forthcoming news, I am eager to share my thoughts on the upcoming football contest and the status of father's ankle (hint: his bones are naturally 40% titanium, people!). Also, there is much to tell on the progress of my own development - how I am adjusting to the West Coast, and where I stand on the rumors of Angelina Jolie's pregnancy (hint: they tried once with Shi(t)loh who failed to conquer me, and now are trying to overwhelm me through sheer strength of numbers, but I shall not yield! I SHALL NOT YIELD!!!). Finally, an in-depth discussion as to why I have the strangest urge to be a fireman when I grow up.


Growth Note: If scanned, my fingerprints will gain admission to the Super Bowl.

Majestically Virile Parent

Yes friends, Father was named the NFL's MVP - as if there was any doubt. It would have been a unanimous vote, but ever the benevolent leader he is, Father requested a vote be made to the ghost of Sean Taylor. Peter King, the heralded Sports Illustrated scribe, took up father's offer and then unthinkably double-crossed him! How else could a first-place vote go to Brett Favre? Mr. King, in addition to the usual layer of Favre-spooge, you now have egg on your face.

I have taken a break from writing as I have spent almost a full month in a meditative state. My consciousness reached into unknown worlds, explored the very meaning of the divine, and transcended the vibrations of the universe. I also started baby-karate lessons which totally kick ass. I could karate chop your neck if I wanted to.

I have been catching up on my reading, and I must say I do not understand why Father is receiving so much attention for not having the Umlaut at his games, and encouraging Mr. Romo to leave Ms. Simpson outside of the public's eyes. Father does not do this for himself, rather he does it as a means of protecting others, and even the Umlaut herself. Imagine the Umlaut in such a congested area, having consumed nothing but alleyway sperm and cigarettes; she would become overstimulated by all of the lights, sounds, and smells. Also, with so many young children wandering around, Father knows she could not resist the opportunity to attempt several kidnappings and other acts of petty larceny.

Yet his acts of charity to her know no bounds. For you see, she thinks she has been to many games and met the players, coaching staff and others. How did he do this? Father took her to the zoo"

Oh... are yoo zee crotch belly-check? I will takes your pictures you
fuzzy coach-man of american footballz!

No. Father loves his fans. And he will protect everyone from the Umlaut. Especially the children. Thanks to Father, kidnappings in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts have dropped 100% during times she is within state lines. Coincidence?

Growth Note: I piss lightning

Smell It

I wrote before about Father being named the new Stetson Man. You can smell his musk, can't you. It's so strong that upon purchasing Stetson, men are given several complimentary doses of Plan B. These are then to be handed to any woman who comes within 30 feet of him, as the scent of Father's cologne can lead to pregnancy.

Below is not just the advertisement for a cologne that will make you reek of accomplishment and infinite divinity, but it is also a story of the Umlaut.


Here we see Father giving the Umlaut a ride to the Center for Critically Brain Injured and Illiterate Super Models. What does she immediately do with this act of selfless charity? She goes for his wallet and his crotch. Father knows she can't help it, but clearly he is restraining himself; obviously hoping that she does not drool in his ear and distract him from piloting the vehicle.

Father then celebrates the Umlaut's departure by jumping his motorcycle over 50 buses (not pictured) and raising $4 million for HIV awareness in Africa. What looks like a kick to the air is actually a long-held Yoga pose (Warrior 25, better known as Bradyasana). Simple in form, the pose is deceivingly complex; as Father acheives the near-impossible feat of attaining inner peace - not for him, but for everyone else. He already has that shit.

Growth Note: I sweat liquid nitrogen

Daily Stab via The Big Lead

OK Magazine is Subtle

Gaze into the dark puddles of mystery and tranquility that are my eyes. Or choose another adventure into the flawless serenity of mother's face, and be transported to a place where meadowgrass shuffles lazily, as if the wind itself was running its fingers through it. Or just notice how I flipped the bird to the Umlaut in my first photoshoot (well, the finger right next to it anyway - which means the same thing but can't get you spanked for it = double awesome). Check and mate, Umlaut. How I roll.

Image from OK! Genetic perfection from Father & Mother

As for OK Magazine's title: Life Without Daddy, I admit it was my suggestion. You see, my eventual earth-rule must be built on a foundation of existing praise. So it is in my best interest (and therefore yours) to see that Father and Mother are appropriately recognized. However, if we went with my first suggestion, "OBEY" it wouldn't sell many magazines, and might be too direct. Instead OK! magazine and I agreed to put in a headline that would still sell on news stands and grocery stores, and would also promote my rise to power. If you rearrange the letters of LIFE WITHOUT DADDY you get:

THOU WILT DEIFY DAD

The man is already a walking God, but it would be nice to make it official, wouldn't it? Although the argument can be made his latest pass to Uncle Randy supplied all the evidence needed to prove his superiority to all mankind.

By midafternoon, I expect this picture will be framed and put in a place of honor in most homes across the world. I've been told the Smithsonian has dedicated a wing to my future school pictures. Those pictures of George Washington were played out anyway.

Growth Note: The lines of my palms predict YOUR future

Tainted Titles, My Taint!

Forgive me future subjects, but I must use the space to briefly defend Father, Uncle William, and the rest of the New England Patriots Orwellinization from vicious lies, mistruths, and accusations that surely approach libel. As you no doubt have heard, petty teams and others who have been conquered by Father and Uncle William either on the gridiron or their marriage have conspired to convince the public that the team has been cheating by stealing the signs of their opponents' defensive coordinators. I assure you citizens of the world, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation:

The signals were given freely to the Patriots.

Don't you see? How do you congratulate a man for breeding pure excellence? How do you pay him a compliment worthy of his raising the world's next great savior? How do you honor his achievements both real and those still locked away in dreams? You cannot. But you can, as many do - turn your life over to that man, and submit to his benevolent rule. This 'taping of defensive signals' was less a case of espionage and more of a ruined surprise "video scrap book" meant to be presented to Father upon his 4th Induction into the Hall of Fame; a life-in-review of the many defensive calls he thwarted through the channeling of his own inner excellence, while demonstrating his merciful vanquishing of opposing defenses. But, no - you asshats out there had to ruin the surprise. I hope you're happy. You are the kinds of knuckledraggers who dip their balls in the punch at parties. Once I am crowned, you shall feel my wrath. But for now I will protest by throwing these footballs into space. Take THAT! and THAT! and THAT and THAT and THAT! I think I've made my point.

Zis punch! It haz a fameelyar flavor!
It reminds me of ze strangers I zervice in taxicabs in your American Zitees!

Growth Note: My muscle fibers support more pounds per square foot than the world's largest suspension bridges.

I Gotta Name

Jonathan Edward Thomas (JET) Moynahan. Wasn't my first choice, but it was on the golden scroll presented to Mother and Father upon my birth. I'm just glad it wasn't Jonathan Taylor Thomas Moynahan. How would you feel if you were sent to save civilization and were confused with this douchebag?

Yeah, the Home Improvement heart/mullet - throb.

And just in case you were wondering, yeah my nickname will be Jet, but it will definitely not (I repeat, not) remind people of John Travolta's suspiciously absent son; and instead recall images of a fucking engine of fire that gets the human race where it is headed. Don't have an opinion on the song Jet by Paul McCartney's song yet - other than it's sort of badass, but I have no idea what he's saying half the time (what the hell is a lady suffragette?). I figure I can discuss that with him in person tomorrow (he's been commissioned to write my lullabies, you know). Oh, what? Your parents sang Hush Little Baby? Oh.. How awkward for you.

Growth Note: My freckles are maps of ancient constellations and mystical underwater cities.

The Midas Touch is a Total Bitch

Hello, my future subjects. I write to you from outside mother's womb for the first time - and on the whole it's not so bad out here, like a glorified sun-deck really. One thing is for sure though: medical quarantine sucks mega balls.

When I was delivered a number of unexpected things happened. While precautions were taken to prevent injury from the molten magma that entombed me, and that Uncle Randy had his best receiver's gloves on to catch me, we didn't count on something. I was born with the fucking Midas Touch. This didn't happen in my uterine lodgings, but it appears once out in your 'real world,' everything I touch turns to flawless solid gold. As you can expect, when I shot out of my homemade womb cannon, Uncle Randy ran a post (-partum ZING!) route and caught me over his shoulder. And before you knew it, his gloves had turned into solid gold. In a brief panic, he threw me towards the doctor who caught me against his chest, and became a golden statue right there. Father picked me from the arms of the former doctor and placed me in Mother's arms before slowly walking away. Later it was realized that Father's skin is made of a rare titanium alloy and mother's is of the finest porcelain, so they were not affected by my 'condition.' To add to the confusion, 4 nurses perished when upon viewing me, I literally melted their hearts. I actually knew I could do that, so seriously, that one is my bad.

So I have been computer-free for a full day, but it looks like my Midas Touch is actually fading - Father told a tale of how- throughout my life - ancient charms and prophecies will protect me and benefit mankind, and they reveal themselves through my very bloodstream as I age. Apparently this Midas thing is just a quickie.

Tomorrow I will be released from this quarantine and begin the name selection ritual with my parents and a council of long-supposed dead gods from olden days. It's a family thing.

But for now I am ending my first full day on this earth the way I started it: Eating a 60 oz Hanger Steak soaked in single malt scotch with two shots of Formula 1. Suck on that Gerber Baby.

When Will Then Be Now? Soon.

As you can guess from father's recent leave of absence request from the New England Patriots' pre-season, I am going to be born any day now. The birth really is more of a formality at this point, but I think it best that I arrive just like everyone else does - the regular joe sixpack, so to speak. Though I will be born with an actual defined six-pack and biceps like well-fed pythons.

As for the rumors of the Umlaut purchasing a gift for mother, I can assure you that this is not the case, at least not completely. She did send a gift - a lumpy rock that she called a "famlee airloom" Her instructions:

If you wan your tom brady bebeh to be big soopermodul, geeve the bebeh dis rock to eated. It makes so the bebeh iz not hongry for yeers!

She went on to say that once she got more well known in modeling she stopped using the stone to prevent hunger and switched to ingesting prophylactics. Mostly for the convenience factor, I assume. Seriously, I think she's brain damaged.

Also - from the Personal Complaint Dept:
Do you know how hard it is to get good quality gunpowder in here these days? And lighting a fuse is more difficult than I thought it would be from inside my homemade womb-cannon. Oh and I had to totally reconfigure the hinges on the exit, which opened inward. It was a goddamn firetrap if you asked me.

A friend recently sent this humorous cartoon
to me with a note that said, "reminds me of you! :)"
I chuckled, then killed him with my mind.

Growth Note: My knuckles crack in major chords

Father Knows Dressed

Today millions of Americans on business travel will walk out of their messy hotel rooms; perhaps hurried and late for an early morning corporate plenary session, maybe wildly hungover in search of spoiled honeydew and cantaloupe, or just still 100% drunk and fleeing the anticipated arrival of law enforcement and the lifeless escort in their room. Whatever the reason, it is then that they will trip over today's USA Today and literally fall to the floor coming face to face with the truth: Father is the Best Dressed Man in the Entire World. Let me take a moment to respond to this: No Shit Sherlock. The list comes from Esquire Magazine, and USA Today reports:

He's lauded for his "All-American Kennedy-clan suits," which clasp his yummy form like a well-fitting pair of football pants. Adding to his cachet: a supermodel girlfriend, Gisele Bundchen, on his arm. Not subtracting from his cachet: Being baby-daddy to his pregnant ex-girlfriend, actress Bridget Moynahan.

"He's managed to learn to keep it simple. He's got a tailor who makes his clothes fit really well, and he always looks like he's put a little thought into" his dress, says associate editor Richard Dorment, who helped put the list together. "I am honored to be chosen," Brady said in an e-mail statement to USA TODAY. "But, as much as I enjoy dressing fashionably, this time of year I care a lot more about how I look on the field than off it."

This confirms so many things, chiefly that the Umlaut is considered by Father to be no more than an accessory. I'm guessing she is somewhere above an unused wallet chain and below a Livestrong Bracelet.

If you look into his eyes for more than 12 seconds,
you are immediately three months pregnant.

Soon so much attention will be placed on me, it's nice to see Father garner some honors for once. If nothing else, he firmly establishes himself as a role model for every sentient creature in the universe. He's done it before you know; let me share a tale. One day after throwing 500 footballs into space, Father escorted Mother to a movie premier in Hollywood and wore the most amazing tuxedo. A lost bird happened to be flying overhead and upon seeing Father's exquisite attire became temporarily paralyzed by sheer beauty he remained frozen in mid air. Eventually recovering after the wind had taken him as far as the North Pole, the bird was so inspired by Father he decided to emulate him - forever forgoing his ability to fly and dressing in his own permanent tuxedo. That bird was the first penguin. True Story.

Growth Note: That punching bag thing in your throat is actually a punching bag in mine.

link to stardoll here.

I Write Letters

Usually, the whores at the Boston Herald's Inside Track are known for their hard-hitting stories and real gumshoe journalism, if by "hard-hitting stories" you mean "alleyway handjobs" and by "real gumshoe journalism" you mean "contempt for anti-perspirants." However, I did manage to dig up a golden nugget or two from their latest turd of a column (though later tests confirmed these nuggets were just moldy corn):

And speaking of Gisele, word from our supermodel spies is that Brady’s leggy S.O. is winging her way home to Brazil to spend her summer hols with the fam. Good timing, Gi. Because, of course, Tommy is working feverishly in Foxboro and if his bundle of joy arrives this month it is probably best if Gisele is on another continent. She is said to be bothered by the amount of attention Tom’s baby mama is demanding in her final weeks of gestation.

Ah, so Father's leggy S.O (Salivating Orifice), the Umlaut, is leaving the continent because he is working and Mother requires companionship? I think I know what motivated that villainous merchant of treachery to leave the country: straight up cowardice. "Someone" may have slipped her this note recently.

To be honest, it wasn't so much slipped to her as it was placed in Father's wallet, where she would be sure to come across it during her daily pick-pocketing. And I imagine someone then had to read it to her.

As for the whole Glamour Magazine piece, I think the question of super-sperm has obviously been answered. My organs are made of solid fucking gold you know.

Growth Note: My liver can double as a Satellite TV dish

OK, Second Time is a Charm

I'm sorry - July 20 came and went, and I definitely did not come or go, but stayed. Things did not go according to plan, and the air compressor I fashioned to shoot me like a cannonball of miracles from mother's womb was undone through a faulty hose - a part impossible to replace quickly. I just knew I should have used some of mother's small intestine instead, but I feared that removing it might alter the fact that when she farts it smells like fresh-cut lilacs.

Anyway, the unintended result is that all of the talk surrounding my arrival eclipsed the Umluat's birthday almost as much as the actual event would have (but not as much, because actual eclipses, both solar and lunar, will coincide with my birth). And I am positively marinating in the sweet fact that she will get to experience it all over again, when I actually do enter this world.

Father, Mother, and I are all making our final preparations for the real thing. Soon you will know my name, my gender, and then some pictures that may stun you with beauty, or may just cause you to sigh knowing something so pure is in the world. Either way, you will defintely conclude that Shiloh was just a hunk of rancid whale meat compared to me.

Growth Note: My footprint is a small scale version of Da Vinci's The Last Supper

Today is Like Any Other

I'm trying to go about my day as if tomorrow isn't such a big deal. I just want to make sure I leave the place they way I found it. Leave it to me: prophet of sexiness and athleticism unrivaled, future thrower of footballs into space, 5 star Soduko player, he/she who is destined to unite the world through genetics alone - leave it to me to get so distracted and leave the oven on or something. I'd be so embarrassed. Those Inside Track harlots would have a field day.

So tomorrow I shall be indisposed for part of the day, but I will be in touch. Do those neonatal units have wireless? They fucking better.

Growth Note: I do not breathe air but inhale hopes, dreams, prayers, and secrets and exhale pure fate.

What a Coincidence

Of all the days I should choose to free myself of my uterine lodgings, it just happens to be the Umlaut's birthday! I mean, who could have possibly predicted this (hint: me!)? The birth of a new world savior to the two most beautiful people on the planet will be covered in print, radio, television, internet, word of mouth, morse code, and that tongue-clicking language of stereotyped tribes. Imagine - a singular world event that manages to damn any other reason for celebrating that day for anyone, regardless age, sex, race or creed. So I'm guessing... just guessing, it will turn the Umlaut's 27th birthday into a meaningless and irrelevant occaision, relegated to the kind of celebration one has for a parking ticket or full cavity search.

It's not like her birthday would have been worth celebrating anyway. She just wanted to throw a party so there would be more wallets to steal, and men-who-are-destined-for-greatness to hypnotize. Plus everyone would have to wear galoshes or somehow avoid stepping in her puddles of drool.

Oh hey Umluat! Great Party (not)! Would you mind breathing through
your nose for awhile so we don't drown in your drool?

In the end though, we will share a day of birth - an important day for each of us that acknowledges our entrance to the human world and into circumstances that define who we are and who we are to become. It is a singular association that cannot be erased, like the scar upon young Harry Potter's head that forever connects him to the evil Lord Voldemort. Only in this case, Voldemort is a rapidly aging, uneducated and emaciated Brazilian minx, who breathes through her mouth and is likely mentally handicapped. Seriously, she would bust out a booty-dance when Taps is played at a military funeral. Oh zeez hoarns! Oh how zey cauz me to wiggle ze boom-boom!

Growth Note: My bone marrow is composed of 1/2 liquid nitrogen and 1/2 attitude.

I'm Thinking About Breaking My Lease

Sure I just had the place redone not that long ago, but to be honest I feel like I've literally outgrown this place. It didn't seem so small back then, but you know as you accumulate more material goods, everything seems a bit more cluttered. I admit it, I'm somewhat of a pack rat.

I will also concede that my tastes have evolved quite a bit. Much like the bottles full of highlighter-water in your dorm room against the black light (no, those really were cool. Seriously. I promise) that are one day replaced by a collection of strange beer bottles demonstrating your drinking prowress, I too feel a need to better express myself and claim my identity. So with that in mind, my plan is to break my 12 month lease and move in with my parents in the next week or two. You know, until I can get on my feet.

Then the world is mine.

Growth Note: The cleft in my chin rivals the world's deepest fjords, trenches, and gorges - filled with secrets both ancient and dark.

I am a Huge Unknown

Father, in a recent interview, has once again distinguished himself from the drooling plebeians that surround him. His profound views on fatherhood should be read by every father to be, as this advice alone will result in children winning multiple Nobel Prizes.

“I guess that late at night, I’m not so much scared as thinking of it as a huge unknown. I want to prepare for it the way I do everything else in my life. I make lists. I make plans. But being a father is different. I think that people go into it and find out, Holy shit, I have no control.”

As you can see, I take after father in the list department. Although his are much more ambitious than mine, I am sure. Not only does he schedule things like, "rear savior to the world" but I am sure he's got to be in the weight room and break down film of opposing defenses. I like how he refers to me as a Huge Unknown - which coincidentally I had been considering submitting to them as a possible boy name (you can't spell Huge Unknown without H-U-N-K).

Speaking of gender, while mother and father are aware of my sex, I respect their decision not to reveal it to the general public until the last possible minute. Imagine if told today that I was a stallion of a male inside mother's perfect uterine accommodations - parents across the world would begin slaughtering their sons on the spot, preventing these boys from experiencing a world where no woman would ever want them while I exist (it would be the responsible thing to do). To prevent mass infanticide, mother and father have taken the proper precautions of keeping my gender secret. With my perfectly tender yet callused hands, I applaud them. When I am presented to the world, the twinkle in my eye should be enough to calm the urges of parents to smother their children. It's like someone bedazzled my goddamn irises, I'm telling you.

She's apparently so hairy, it enrages people. They better look out for
drool puddles though! I say that because she's a mouth breather!

You may wonder my thoughts on father's apparent growing affection for the Umlaut. I have two. Either he has hundreds of wallets for her to steal, or he is dedicating his offseason to personally heal those with only the most debilitating of brain injuries. Those are the only possibilities.

Growth Note: My pulse is the beat to which 'your own drummer' is marching.