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  • ­­Dear darling Harper just now two years old, There are truths, my careful observer, I want you to know about me. You were not my first act of creation. Before you, I wore an entire outfit of red pleather, including a beret and red plastic sunglasses, and pretended I was a genetically modified tomato longing to justify my existence. I did my fair share of stripping, humping, singing, and playwrighting for audiences full of political queers in theaters that smelled like armpits and spilled beer…