LET REALITY BE YOUR HELMSMAN

Bad news, I'm afraid. The striking personage in Chinatown with the tutu and what appears to be a ripped black leotard may be slowly losing his mind.
My guess it's because of the cold and the soft drinks.
Too much sugar is a bitch.

So, for that matter, is the stress of urban living.

[He was mentioned in this post: 'It has feathers!'. Cite: "a bearded fellow wearing snakeskin cowboy boots and a charming tutu a few sizes too small, which wasn't perfectly clean". End cite.]

Yesterday he progressed screaming down the street.
An intervention might be necessary.

I do not know him well enough to breach his shell.
In fact, I don't know him at all.
Perhaps you do?


It is quite likely that in his other life he adheres to a different identity, specifically that of a petite female ballet dancer.

That is something with which I can sympathize; I too have imaginary personas. But I do not intend to look like them.


I dress like what I am. Not overweight. Male, mature, and reasonably clean. My wardrobe does not exhibit any eccentricities, I have no tattoos or piercings, nor bright blue or pink streaks in my hair.
I'm probably rather presentable.



The goofiness is all inside.




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