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.
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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