I see that Roger Mortimer’s been spouting off. (I’ll be damned if I’ll call him the Earl of March.) Now that my looney scribe’s stopped taking pictures of her bookshelves and popping bubble wrap, I’ll finally have my chance to reply.
I am: Edward III, teenage king of England.
I want: to be a real king, not Mother and Mortimer’s puppet.
I wish: I got to wear my crown more often.
I hate: it when Mother and Roger Mortimer smooch in public. Get a room!
I miss: my father, in a way.
I fear: that I might turn out like my father.
I hear: that Uncle Edmund’s been acting a little strange lately. What’s with him?
I wonder: what Mortimer’s going to get up to next.
I regret: Mother and Mortimer deposing my father, sometimes. That was sort of extreme. But at least I’m king.
I am not: stupid. Mother’s not the only person in the family who can do the meek act, you know.
I dance: with Philippa, my wife. When are Mother and Mortimer going to get around to crowning her, by the way?
I sing: off key, but Philippa says it sounds lovely. She’s cool.
I cry: to think of how those Scots got away from that so-called warrior Mortimer. It’d have been different if I’d been in charge.
I am not always: the type of guy who sits around brooding. I like a good joust as well as anybody, and I really enjoy working on getting an heir with Philippa. She’s hot.
I made: Mother and Mortimer look pretty silly in front of the Scots when I refused to go to my sister Joan’s wedding.
I write: to the Pope about what a jerk Mortimer is.
I confuse: my cousins the Bohun twins with each other. (But at least I have a good reason, unlike some dolts with the initials RM who can’t keep their daughters straight.)
I need: a plan and some good friends to help me carry it out.
I should: give Mortimer a kick in the behind the next time he walks ahead of me. Especially if I’m wearing pointy shoes.
I start: to think that it’d be fun to be King of France too.
I finish: everything on my plate because Mother tells me to do so. But not for long.