Nick--his due

Nick is reading my blog. He says that I portray him as being more clueless than he actually is. He wants me to point out that he did, in fact, bring back a real present for Gina, in addition to the chocolates. I told him the story was funnier the other way. He agreed and said he’d let it stand.
So—let’s get a few things set straight about Nick.
He’s 20 now. He writes A LOT. He just finished a 400 page novel called The Harwood Burials. He’s evolved into a very handsome character, and makes sartorial choices inspired by Spike Spiegel, which isn’t the worst fashion role model. He looks exactly like Harry Potter, and there is a really funny picture of him holding up the Harry Potter calendar next to him—separated at birth? He knows some really great jazz bars in New Orleans. Random strangers come up to him on the street everywhere we go and tell him their secrets, a sign of sainthood. He will ditch his friends without shame to sit on the couch and watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer with me and Lilly.
He is maybe too tolerant of crazy women, but he comes by that honestly.
He knows how to salsa. His literary hero is Don Quixote. He’s funny and pure, can remember endless plots and historical facts. He never thinks he’s nice enough. He tips well.
To pay for his trip to Belgium, he spent 6 weeks working the third shift at a warehouse.
He’s really, really, really hysterically funny.
He has no sense of direction, and he’s weirdly good at math. He doesn’t even realize how good at math he is.
And he smells good. He still smells like he did when he was a baby.
Since his birth I have loved him almost too much to look at him straight-on. Maybe that’s what they mean by blinded by love. He was this little, scrawny, violet baby who would only nurse if he had his hat on. I’ve never met anyone like him. He needs to eat better.
Hope that’s a little better, my dear Nick.