I am the scruffy edge.

I was telling Linda that I was a little embarrassed by our yards. "I don't want our neighbors to be embarrassed," I said.

We are in the Williamson neighborhood, and people keep very nice yards and gardens here.

So I thought about it, "Well, our particular neighbors aren't quite up to it, either.  We're on the scruffy edge."

Heh.

Sort of describes my life, I think. Pegasus Books is the scruffy edge of downtown. Probably the one space in the entire area that hasn't had a renovation in 30 years. (If you saw my store, you'd see why, but still...)

My appearance is the scruffy edge. I look like a homeless person right now.  I tell myself that my long scruffy beard is just in the spirit of the Lumber look, that the style has circled back around to me.  Like a stuck clock right twice a day.

My clothes are always a couple years old.  (How this is possible, I don't know.)  I'm driving a 1999 car with only 36K miles on it.  When I inherited it a few years ago, it only had 20K miles on it.  So a really nice older car. Scruffy edge.

My books are pretty scruffy.  Donner Party werewolves and hyper-intelligent pigs on the rampage, and seductive Succubus's and love-lorn gargoyles and mid-life crisis Golems.

I don't think I would have it any other way.