Playful, elegant, and not above the judicious use of the word “shit."

Hair, day eighty-two

I know it seems like my hair doesn’t grow. 82 days?! Shouldn’t I be able to throw it out the window and let a local prince climb it like a rope, up two stories into my room? Where I would promptly slap his face for getting fresh with me?

You are ROYALTY, for god’s sake. Behave.

These photos don’t really illustrate how much my hair has grown since January, or how thick it is. I have to see my stylist about every six to seven weeks just to tame the mess a bit, and it is quite a mess. Just ask Tyrant who a few days ago asked, “So, how long are you going to let this nonsense go on?”

“Nonsense?”

“Yeah, you always look like you just woke up. Or got stuck in a wind storm.”

“I love you, too.”

If you come to my book signing at the King’s English on Monday, April 2 at 7:00 PM you can see for yourself. Yeah, my book comes out next Tuesday. WHAT?! WHAT?! Craziness. That’s what that is. Crazy.

(Here is a list of places you can order it if you are so inclined, DAD.)

Leta saw a copy of it lying on the countertop in the kitchen, picked it up and saw my name on the jacket. “Is this your book?!” she asked, super excited that the explanation she gives to her friends about what I do might actually be the truth.

“It is,” I answered nervously because HOLY SHIT SHE OPENED IT AND STARTED READING.

That day. It arrived.

I watched her carry it over to a chair in the family room, curl up and turn page after page. I didn’t dare breathe, and then when I was about to pass out she finally let out a huge giggle, a laugh that hit me across the room, right in the throat and then it travelled down and filled my lungs. I wrote all those words so that she specifically would read them. And there she was, that whole collection of love letters in her lap, and she was laughing out loud.

She read the book before bed that night, in the car on the way to school the next morning, and then she finished when she got home that afternoon.

“So, listen,” she said as she approached me with the book under her arm. “Why does this book stop when I turned five?”

“Because that’s how many letters I wrote. Marlo came along and, you know, KAH-BLOOM!”

“Is the next book about me when I’m six and seven and eight?” she asked and I fell over dead. I died. I’m writing this from the Spirit World. There’s beer here.

“Well, this isn’t like some of the books you read where the story continues in the next book,” I explained. “It’s just this book. But I’ve written a bit more about those years on my website. And I’ll show that to you someday.”

“Cool!” she said, and then she handed me the book, ran around the corner up the stairs and continued to live life.

….

I’d love to see you Monday night if you’re around. And so would Chuck. Yes, he is actually going to be there and will probably indulge you if you want to balance something on his head (something preferably light and edible [his request] that doesn’t cause gas [my request]).

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