this is papa. i don't get to say much about him here coz mama is narcissistic enough to make me filter out most of him to fit more of her (and we all know she can fill an entire space pretty darn easily muahahah).
but today, i wanna talk about papa.
and maybe my awesome hair. see how lar.
papa is a simple man. he doesn't do much, neither does he say much. he gets screamed at a lot by mama coz no matter how much we babies like it when people sing to us, he won't sing. not even when i'm screaming at the top of my lungs for comfort. nope. he's too man to sing. so what does he do? well, he has a pretty predictable routine. first, he changes my diaper (nothing beats a clean diaper! plus getting nekkid in the process always makes me smile coz i have a really cute bum). if that doesn't work he moves on to plan b (no, not that new cafe where so many have found spiders and snails and glass in their food); take me for a walk to gather compliments on my hair. if that fails - it rarely ever does - he swings me around on the most awesome rollercoaster arm ride ever. if that STILL doesn't work, he throws me back at mama and flops down on the bed dramatically, as if he had fought a war and walked out with many bullet wounds but both his balls still intact.
papa is the only person in the world i don't allow kiss me. not coz i don't lup him, but coz unlike most useless malaysian men, he grows facial hair like a monkey grows... err... okay i have no idea where i was going with that one, but let's pretend i gave a decent simile. whenever papa wants to kiss me, he quickly runs off for a shave and comes back all excited. however, stubbles emerge faster than you can say.... errrrr, shit i don't know where i'm going with that either... okay, forget that and don't judge me, i'm just a freaking baby. so whenever he kisses me, i wail like a banshee. and him, being married to mama and all, obviously enjoys being screamed and wailed at. so he does it all the same.
papa has this weird habit of wanting to paint me. every monday, he'd bring out a big-ass canvas, his bag of paints and brushes, and put on some hipster music to get into the zone. what zone? - i don't know man, coz judging by the fact that there's a countable five strokes on that same canvas for the past four months since my birth, the zone ain't a zebra. ahahaha, geddit? coz zebras have tons of stripes, and if papa really worked he'd have that many stripes on the... oh wait, i said strokes previously, not stripes. oh wait, i brought out zebra coz i mentioned zone. like you know how people would paint stripes to indicate specific zones? like zebra crossings?
shit this writing crap sucks and no not in the good nipple sucking kinda way i don't wanna do it no more.
and english.
shit english.
gibberish is funner.
anyway, papa also hates english. he makes up words and really can't read a nursery rhyme to save his life. he tries to cover it all up by, once again, acting manly, and ends the story before i can even say "papa". yes, i can't say it yet, hence anytime would be the correct answer. and even though my bff dingus the green singamajig can teach him how to sing that song about the old man knocking his head syllable to syllable, he still can't get it right. so not only does he not sing, he speaks lullabies out in a "manly" voice and screws them all up by changing - or eliminating, whichever's easier - the words or sentences accordingly.
but when nobody's around to listen but me, he plays the guitar to me. he still, infuriatingly enough, doesn't sing, but he makes up for the voice by playing along to mp3s. he plays the same song to me on most days, not coz he can't play any others (being a true rocker/hippie, he's good at playing by ear, too "man" to depend on downloadable tabs), but coz he thinks there's no point in painting a masterpiece when the masterpiece is right there in front of him :) he plays "you're beautiful to me" all the time.
to summarize, papa may think he's all man just coz he doesn't sing and is all tough. but at the end of the day, he's still putty in my teeny tiny hands, and that's what makes him a real man. coz a real man knows how to love in the simplest form of all, no wishy washy badly sung crap, no pretentious deliverance of practiced songs, no pink tees and unicorns... just pure, undiluted love. and that's what makes papa so special to me; he's as true as true can be :)
'nuff emo crap, time to get back to kicking asses and being hipstery.
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