Why I Won’t Dress As Santa

If I stopped trimming my beard, I could pull it off as soon as this grey goes white. But who wants to be wearing a red velour pantsuit at the very moment of discovering one’s hidden inner creepy guy? Not me.

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About JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.
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One Response to Why I Won’t Dress As Santa

  1. emmakwall says:

    Haha! 🙂

    Like

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