Steven, I know I phrased that as a question, but it was really a command. Yes, but mine is…ummm…private. Private, Steven? Yes, Miss Palma. PRIVATE Steven? Again with the capital letters?

And if there was one thing I'd finally figured out, it was that your mind is something you always CAN change.

Oh, good lord, Jeff. Don't go getting all emotional on me. I've been getting it from my mom, my dad, my sister, the freaking MAILMAN--I don't need it from you, too. All I ask is that you promise me one thing.' 'What?' 'Just water the plants while I'm gone, all right?' 'You don't have plants, Tad.' 'I know. I just always wanted to say that.

The only time I can ever remember Steven crying over any of it was after my treatment, when I tried to use my foot on his bass drum pedal, and we realized I could never play a drum set.

You are a wonderful son, and a wonderful man. Yet another parent busting forth with the “man” thing! I’d have to check my chest for signs of hair when I got home.

I’ll probably just stand in a corner, trying not to be noticed, until the decoration committee accidentally packs me into a box at the end of the night. There I will lie, crammed in between rolls of crepe paper, until the New Year’s dance two months from now. Jeffrey thought about this for a moment and said, Won’t they notice the box is too heavy when they go to put it away?

There are really no guidelines whatsoever, because this is the kind of thing that only happens to ME.