Lesbian Dad

Monkey business at The Palace Hotel


No, she wasn’t growling at the ladies.  Or barking.  Just carrying on with some narrative or another, more or less removed from her surroundings.  Per usual.

Story of the day soon to follow.  Some hint as to our whereabouts earlier that afternoon might be found in my pants (velveteen) and her animal (rabbit).

Also: I promise this will be the last quasi self-portrait this week.  The psychoanalyst in me sez all this outward self-representation, after a long run with the equivalent of a bag over my head, must be overcompensation for the fact that I feel muter than usual, unable or unwilling to articulate the true angst at the core.  Either that or, you know, coincidence.

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