Don’t Forget Those Curls

My niece forgets things.

I have the most beautiful and wonderful little 8-year old niece on the planet…

Sionara Sweet Curls!

…but she is somewhat forgetful.

She writes me notes with things like, “Judders cho titi poop dose zebra bot-bot twitches. This guy is plering at you”, complete with a drawing of a happy face with his tongue out (“pler”). She forgets that it’s spelled d-o-e-s but knows it isn’t as funny that way. She forgets not to trust her mum and auntie so much when writing Uncle Judd notes and that he may not enjoy being called “Judders” as much as they are promising (nearly as much as he enjoys zebra bot-bot twitches apparently, fkn crazy chicks).

Over-exuberance and excitement aside, when she launches herself at me from a dead run, she forgets that she’s not a scrawny waif-like little woodland fairy anymore. She’s big enough to knock me off balance and into oncoming traffic… but maybe that’s her plan.

Happiness and cuddleations aside, when she decides that she needs to be in my lap, she forgets that I have stuff… in my pants. BOY stuff. And knobby knees and elbows aren’t nice to it. Maybe she forgets because she doesn’t have the same stuff, I don’t know.

Competitive nature and partyonnedness aside, when she embarks with us on an evening of fun, she forgets that her little body will shut down when it wants to, slipping her zombie-like into a sleep state almost against her will. This is regardless of whether or not it’s her turn at the board game or if someone happens to be drawing bloodstained scars on her face in neon marker (I tried to get Wife and Sis-in-law to stop, but I was helpless against the gut-wrenching laughter that had seized my body).

Miss Eight is a touch forgetful.

She said something about a year ago, a simple something that wasn’t necessarily repeated or reaffirmed over the year.

But she didn’t forget it.

Around the time that I was first in this foreign land and newly staring into the eyes of the woman I was going to marry, my then-soon-to-be niece was asking her mother if she could whack from her scalp her curliciously curly red locks in the name of The Battle Against Leukemia.* It was too late, or she was just being a freak, or something like that, but her mother told her it would have to happen the following year.

*I’m all about capitalizing anything that’s “A Battle of Something,” it’s proven that this makes it 20% cooler.

The year passed, with little mention of that gorgeous head of hair going the way of the winter wheat, yet when it rolled around this time she reminded her mother that she was still all about it.

She’s doing it to raise money, though fame seems to be tagging along.

She’s doing it because she’s got a bit of the crusader in her (much like her mother and auntie).

She’s doing it because her heart is too damn big for her little body.

She’s doing it because her little soul is so unbelievably beautiful that she needs a bald head to try and balance things out a bit.

She’s been warned that she’ll probably cry. I’ve looked her in the eye and told her that she might have a WickedCoolSineadHead or a Knobby McLumpington. She knows she’s going to look a bit funny. And she doesn’t care.

I’ve told her that she may have to start smoking so that she can pull off a more convincing Bruce Willis since she’s got no stubble. I’ve told her the blatantly obvious… it grows back.

I’ve told her that I’m so immensely proud of her I don’t have words.

I’m well aware that there are about 80 juddillion worthwhile causes out there and I would never attempt to sway anybody one way or another about what to do with their hard-earned money (other than Dude… stop with the fucking pre-worn jeans and PINK shirts for fuck’s sake, some of us live in the ass-end of the world and can only get shit that you fucksticks think is cool and it so fucking ain’t and I just want some regular shit to wear comfortably without looking like I openly question my sexuality or belong on a pre-teen soap opera… *pant pant* ‘kay done).

That said, the cynical asshole inside of me recognizes that there’s still hope for this one. There’s an actual, viable chance that she’ll extend her li’l soul out into the World… and it’ll pay her back in kind.

There’s the remotest of possibilities that this kid, one of my absolute favoritest of all time, will live her life knowing that people are genuinely good in their hearts, and when someone with a gimongous one opens it up for any manner of others, they get rewarded with all different kinds of love.

So go give her some love. I don’t care if it’s your moolah, though that’s preferred naturally as foot loofahs can’t come through the Intraweb, or if it’s just kind words, but throw a little of it out there, it’s good for the environment.

I’ve got some Triple-sized Judd-hugs for ya too, if yer game.

I said Game! GAME! JEE-AYY-EMM-EEE!!!!


Edited: Apparently I got a link wrong. Wife is the one that clicketyclicked our donation so that’s my excuse, and not that I’m a total fucktard who doesn’t know how to properly send folks to the donation site. Apologies and smooches.

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