First. Ever. Shhh.

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On a serious note, I’m a fan of the crust. The heel. Start and end parts of the loaf of bread. Whichever name you like to call a rose. Some people aren’t. I am. Especially when it’s toasted. So when I just found out all I had was only one crust left, I didn’t really mind. At all, at all. In fact, couldn’t wait. Horsed it into the toaster. Checked the fridge. What I could put on it. Fridge. Bare. Once. More. Few tomatoes. Toast. Burning. Burnt. Didn’t matter. Burnt crust of toast. Sliced baby tomatoes. Washed down with a glass of gin. Could’ve been a burnt sock. Quite the feast! In fact. A celebratory feast. Why so? Drummer boy, spit it out… I finally finished a full draft of my book. First draft. Rough work draft. Rambling draft. Boney draft. Skeleton draft. According to Hemingway. The s**t one. Continue Reading »

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