Sometimes, I run away to the circus. (No real animals were injured in the cropping off of this pony’s lower torso, though it was indeed a sacrifice to the bigger picture.) Sometimes, I run away to the circus for years at a time. I run away because I lose the magic dust that makes me a writer, and the circus is the only place I know where to find it.
It’s time to write. I need to write, mostly about bullshit, and I need you to read. Sorta like the tree falling in the woods, and waiting to become paper to make a noise. Thank you for being the ink on the paper all these years.
Mostly, remember, the holiday season, is but a bridge to the new year, and I’m always glad to see a new year. On that, I wish you all a smooth and beautiful slide to 2018. I will see you on the the other side.
So there you have it.
