The trails, trials, and tribulations of the Unhappy Camper

The Unhappy Camper "got in just under the wire", as he liked to say. Professional salvation. Saved by the profession he would practice at times unprofessionally as fuck. His countenance was best described as chaffed, serrated, and by all means, edgy. "The closer one approaches the edge of the cravasse, the better the view." His quote. He called it the event horizon. His thick Magazine. The fat Collective. The swollen inventory. Of self deprication. Was. His. Thing. But he kept moving. The rolling marble. He was the author named A. Clay Marble. His pseudonym. Their's were Mrs. A. Clay Marble. Four marbles in all. These frozen identities that would thaw beneath the skin of his three wives would all but obliterate whatever identitiy they might have crafted for themselves. The weird part was that they seemed, at the time, to like it. Thankfully, time heals, and the marbles scattered like a good break in a game of eight-ball upon the green baize of matrimony.