Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

One. I’m not good at this. That should be painfully obvious. Like stepping-on-a-Lego-buried-deep-in-shagged-carpet-in-the-middle-of-the-night obvious. Like running-a-marathon-after-a-year-of-being-a-couch-potato-and-wondering-“What-the-fuck-was-I-thinking?” kind of obvious. It’s taking-up-the-Bird-Box-Challenge-and-taking-an-evening-stroll-on-the-expressway kind of obvious. It’s like reading-then-watching-every-adaptation-of-The-Diary-of-Anne-Frank-and-hoping-this-time-it-will-be-different kind of obvious. Two. I’m allergic to pineapple. And kiwi. But I will eat kiwi more times than not. Say, we’re at a fancy dinner. I’m dressed up …

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