The chronicles of a complex

As Feral child walked into our house this morning, he alerted us of his presence by the mere odor emanating from his body.   It smelled like a combination of vodka, male ejaculate, and something else, maybe vomit.   As for his attire, he was draped in a floral bed sheet...something reminiscent of the curtains you would find at your grandmothers house.  Usually, his style of dress is somewhat old school, though usually it is more formal than the toga like covering he is currently wearing.  (He frequently wears his zaidy's sweaters with matching slacks).  This morning, he looks particularly interesting though (not only because of his grotesque smell and weird clothing).  He has a partially sad expression on his face, complimented by a scheming grin (possibly he is planning on  who to black berry message next, possibly he is thinking about a shiny object he found on a walk, perhaps he is thinking about nothing at all.  In fact, it is likely he is thinking nothing at all).  This is the feral child.  This is his essence.  This is the child that must be destroyed.