ain't nobody knows what a newborn holds but his papa's gonna hide shaking gristle
Welcome to Dear Multiverse
The Setting: A multiversal hub, a through-way if you will, of all possible universes.
The Purpose: To ask for advice from anybody around.
The People: Anybody who can find it.
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Brody has been working. It's easy to tell: he's too pale, which he's trying to cover up with make-up, like someone stuck a straw in him and sucked out all the filling. And he's wearing a lot of clothes, but that could also mean he left the house intending for people to look at him.
"So, like, when you say the word 'cute'... what do you mean? Like, 'your dog is cute,' or, 'cute shoes', or whatever. What exactly does 'cute' mean? ...Nobody quote the dictionary at me, you fucking pedants, I will bite you in the face." No, that's not a serious threat.
He fidgets, gnaws on his finger, pushes around a plate of vegetables he is not eating because it's making him nauseated. He's drinking, though, SURPRISE!!! "Do you think it's okay for parents to hit their kids?"