The Writer speaks of himself in the third person. The Writer did not, sadly, have a pipe with which to also pose.

The Writer, who is not really much of a writer at all but fancies himself to be one nonetheless, sits all day and watches his fourteen thousand word deficit dwindle to but eighty-nine hundred and change. He rejoices in the ease with which words flow as his plots begin to unravel, for they were so difficult to ravel in the first place.

He has earned himself a Rock Band break. And also, a pie break. And so he does not have much time for concocting beard prose or poetry. He is, however, rather proud of his previous effort and also his embellishing of Better Know a Beard: Kris Johnson. He hopes you have read and enjoyed both.

He also hopes that you will be so inspired by either his words, and by this of course he means the words from previous posts, or by the becoming thickness of his beard that you will sponsor him so that he may not wallow in mediocrity, even though he may recognize that as his lot.

He also apologizes to his English teachers for his run-on sentences. He knows it's wrong and yet he continues to write them. He intends to call it style.