I hope you are well. I am writing to tell you that I am not well. I hate it here in Philadelphia, and all the other delegates make fun of me constantly, especially Thomas. Just the other day, he grabbed my wool coat tails, pulled them over my head and exclaimed “Say ‘I love the Tyrant King George and kiss the painting I have of him under my bed!’” and I had to, for fear of him ripping my coat. He once said he was going to “water my tree of virginity” by propositioning one of the French women who loiter around Benjamin’s workshop, but I became too embarrased after he gave me several woolskin sheaths claiming they would “protect my unit on a trip to Valley Forge.” He teases me about my height constantly, once holding the very document I helped create above my head so I couldn’t sign it, claiming there was a “height requirement to being a Founding Father.” Please, mother, send a carriage to pick me up from here.

Yours,

James Jr.