I’ve tried to write a Christmas story for twenty years now. I wrote one years back about Christmas in Panama and how one event, that passes so quickly, can linger for decades and impact aspects of your life you didn’t know would even exist. Like the stories you’d tell the children you never thought you have. Or the beer you drink during the Holidays out of some twisted attempt to stay loyal to people you’ll never see again.

It isn’t working out, this Christmas story. I lack the necessary hocus-pocus imagery to pull off a tale of redemption. So Charlotte and her dying mother and the family that burned to death remain locked in my lazy, balding head as prisoners awaiting hocus-pocus.

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Writing it like dieting. Starting is easy…continuing, well….

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Back when I wore a 7-11 smock and my friends called me “Hodgie”, I knew a teacher named Gary. He came in the store each day and got a coffee. During summer this educator drove a Blacksburg Transit Bus to make extra dough. He paid off his student loans 2 years earlier by driving a Bus Route. I guess some people Occupy a part-time job they don’t want to pay off their student loans and other people shit on cop cars to pay off their student loans.

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You represent your own lazy ass, not mine. I’d rather drive the part-time bus route, thanks anyway.

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You could put a Pot plant in one of those Topsy-Turvy tomato things and grow weed upside down on your back porch. Tell your friends it’s a Willow Tree seedling device. Like they’ll care…

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I’m beginning to believe I’m fearful of success. I’m scared I might be right about that…

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See Charlotte is riding down a road in Mahalia. Snow. Ice. A slide into ditch and she meets this family. They help her out of the ditch… see, lost interest already, I have… I can smell the hocus-pocus coming like a dog smells fear.

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This is the part when I admit I have no idea what to write about but have finally sickened myself enough with reminders about how I don’t write anymore. One short story makes it to an online magazine (ONLINE! Not even real…) and suddenly I’m thrown back down into a fear that hits like a speeding bobsled on the slalom of my life.

If you’re bad, you suck.
If you’re good, what then?

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You ever use Google Earth to check on places you read about or places you visited just to make sure they’re still there if you get a chance one day to go back? Me neither…

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A woman at Wal-Mart told me someone I knew many years ago had died of a stroke. He was about 42. He was her son. She began to tear up as she stocked the shelves and reminded me about his love of baseball and good jokes. I felt my eyes grow misty as I looked at the bacon and sausage and hot dogs and bullshit that is nothing more than death packaged to support life. I left. A mother crying over the death of her child. That’s too much hocus on Christmas Eve.

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Any man who has a prostate exam would realize that Homosexuals are possibly the toughest sons of bitches on planet Earth. The Gay Rights movement should just push for every Male to have a prostate exam. I mean, they go through THAT for fun….! That’s tough, I don’t care who you are.

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I’ve been working on my Rewrite, that’s right.
Gonna change the ending.
Gonna throw away the title.
Gonna toss it in the Trash.

I’ve been working on my Rewrite, that’s right.
All the time I’m spending.
Every minute after Midnight.
I’ve been working on my Rewrite,that’s right.
Gonna turn it into cash.

-Paul Simon

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This is the part where I mention how I’m going to write more often.

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–John.

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