Some kids do drugs. Some kids light stuff on fire. Me, I eat oats.

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.

If you promise you will get better instead of dying, I promise I will, too.

Who’s that? That’s the King. Who’s he? The Duke. Who’s she? The Princess. What do they call you? The Count. What does that make me? Umm…how about the Peasant? And the name stuck.

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 dove on those papers like Sherlock Holmes on a cappuccino binge.