Hence I've decided to self-administer a Rorschach test (and charged myself $200/hour).
Or it's my dad expressing the size of the FISH he was busy catching INSTEAD of watching me WIN my table tennis tournament!
Or it represents how my dad saw my mom while in the delivery room during my birth. Hence why it's taken him 30 years to get that pack of cigarettes.
Or it's a Sea Monkey with sleep apnea.
|Not a Rorschach test, a portrait of a lady Sea Monkey (compare to image above...you know I'm right, look at the white space...Thank you.). Art courtesy of the amazing artist, Travis Louie, image courtesy of this sea monkey freak. Now imagine her trying to sleep with air-passages blocked.|
Or...no, I can't get "nature's enema hose" out of my head. Let's stick with that symbolism.
Or it's my father never telling me he loved me, and laughing himself silly about it.
I think we've learned more about Rorschach and his weird animal paintings then we did about me...unless you count the fact I have a blog at all ...LOVE ME! LOOOOOoOOOoOooooOOOoooVE MEEeeeEEeE! Why do I bother with a blog when I could be satisfying my pathological need to fill the gaping cavern in my soul with anonymous sex, like normal people?
[Editor's post-post note: I actually don't have any daddy issues...I swear...unless that explains my all-mustachioed-male-nude-doggy-pile-on-a-baseball-field-while-Field of Dreams-is-playing-on-the-jumbotron.]