The Confession

When you live in a small town, every body knows your business and your name, kinda like that song says from Cheers.  They know who your folks are, what you do for a living and where you rank in the social status, in other words; how much money it looks like you have.  If your shoe size was interesting, they’d know it too and pass the info around so that anyone with a foot fetish could become your sole mate.

When the news came to me that I had an inheritance of a house with running water and a sofa that wasn’t about to be repossessed, I decided to pack up my car with what was left of my dignity and come back to Big Thicket.  I left a slew of problems where I came from and these problems were what I have been determined to keep my mouth shut about.

But since I am now spilling my guts on the World Wide Web, I have to figure out a way to be myself and not tip my hand at what’s up my sleeve.  So please understand when I tell you that I am not real.

 I’m just a Fig Newton of my own imagination.

Big Thicket isn’t real, but the town I live in is.  These people I am going to tell you about are real; it’s just that their names have been changed to protect the boring, the innocent and me. What you are about to read on this blog is what I lived through.  You’ve heard about the witness protection program?

I could have used the protection but I didn’t qualify.  Hell, I couldn’t qualify for the Jehovah’s Witness program though a few of them tried really hard to get me in.

Now that I have confessed my sins, I am going to go out in the back yard armed with a tall glass of red wine and say a few "Hell Yeahs" till I feel forgiven!