'Propagation of the species' is an unusual term for me to dream about as a four year old. I'm thirty-five. Why dream that I'm four, and think thoughts that a kid shouldn't? Am I attempting to aggrandize my decelerated circumstances, or populate an acceleration? It's all just about tits.
Steve slipped into his son's room. Little Stevie was sitting up in the crib, rubbing his eyes. "ah'm 'tempin 'gran sir cuss tans, Daaad, antits," he drawled with his sleepy four year old mouth. He dropped his head back onto the pillow. His father admired for a moment how big his son was for his age. Stevie yawned into his father's face and jumped up, suddenly hungry. He vaulted over the short rail and sped past his father, out the door, down the stairs and leapt into his mother's arms. He buried his face under her chin, into the crook of her neck. She squeezed him tight.
"Just for you, honey. Get a plate and the syrup. I'll bring it to you." She kissed him.
Stevie followed his mother's directions. He kneeled onto a seat at the breakfast table, then grabbed silverware and rolled the knife between his fingers, eyeing his father coming through the door. He plopped his hand onto the table and played mumbly peg, tapping the knife on the table in the spaces between his fingers as fast as he could.
"That's pretty good. Stevie, where'd you learn to do that?" His father asked as he slipped into the seat beside him.
"I've known it mah whole life," Stevie smiled. He leaned over and slammed the knife down between his father's legs, skewering him to the chair. "Mother dear, no pancakes, just coffee, please."
Bill has various persona that he keeps in a box on the bureau, removing to dust occasionally. Last year, he appeared in The 50/50, he won five awards: for a column and for vacuuming and he placed fifth in a dance contest in front of over 500 people. Next year he plans to only associate with the number six.