Oscar’s mother lay in the hammock, softly swinging back and forth, dreaming on a daring but absent-minded drop of sweat grazing between her breasts. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly it moved lower and lower toward the watering hole of her navel.
“Surf’s up,” she breezed lightly, eyes closed.
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Published by hey, that tickles
blowing bubbles of giggling somethingness and why-not-itude, a creative laxative, a provocateur of visual burps and farts (ie: until the end of 2019 as design department head at the creative circus, and frequent side-hustley designer of brandy designy stuff) – but also my every-other-time-o'-day approach.
hopefully this stuff is easily sharable, lots funner than having to read a lot, and not a big investment of time.
i hope you enjoy.
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hey, that tickles 