Jul
1
The boy’s coming along nicely.
He tries to touch my face when I’m holding him. In fact, he’s constantly going for it. I let him touch me sometimes and his nails dig into my face. Then, my dear readers, joy overcomes the both of us: he wails in laughter at my pain, and I wail in maniacal laughter at such joy. My hours whispering terrible things to him while he sleeps is apparently paying off.
Anguish. Pain. Valor. Suffering. Despotism.
Oh, my boy…