In hindsight I suppose it had a kind of twisted desperate hilarity to it like when my brother Mark referred to Murphy's nasal drainage as 'tumor juices', as in "You can stay in our house just don't get tumor juices all over it."
Later on when we were watching a Spurs game downstairs we heard a racket up in the guest bedroom where Hudson and Murphy slumbered. "What's that noise?" he asked anxiously.
I wryly replied, "It's probably those tumor juices congealing, organizing into a humanoid that'll take your kids away". Mark, having clearly watched way too much Sy Fy channel in his lifetime, said without hesitation, "I've seen it happen, man."
Some days I don't know whether it's absolute clarity or madness I see... whether I'm hearing the voice of God or haunted by Marlon Brando talking about a snail crawling on a razor's edge.
But I do try to keep humor about me. I'm starting to understand that it rarely translates unless you've had me in your home, know our entire story, and maybe even call us your own.
While I'll try to do better and be less esoteric, what a great title for a cartoon 'Tumor Juices'. If I could only draw...