I love my fuzzy robe,
It keeps me toasty warm,
It cradles me to sleep,
As unwatched TV shows flicker by.

I love my fuzzy robe,
It gives me distinction
Because I look just like
Oscar the Grouch in it.

I love my fuzzy robe,
The ample belt
Can circle my ample middle,
To keep me tightly wrapped.

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “fuzzy.”


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

3 thoughts on “Fuzzy”

  1. I love my fuzzy robe,
    It has been with me for years,
    Although it is frayed in some places
    It is still my favorite.

    I love my fuzzy robe,
    The color is the best
    My favorite color, of course
    It is bright, bold purple.

    I love my fuzzy robe,
    Plush, soft 100% cotton
    Feels good against my naked body
    Oh, I’m not being naughty.

    I love my fuzzy robe,
    Especially when I get out of bed
    On a cold winter morning
    It embraces me in warmth.

  2. There was nothing like gently touching her baby boy’s fuzzy blonde head. She repeatedly would count all ten toes, all ten fingers, and then pet his round velvety, fuzzy head. It was amazing to her that this little miracle was a result of her loving marriage. Her first born son was the most awe inspiring experience ever. Let’s march onwards forty years later. She dreaded it when her hair finally all fell out post chemo and radiation. Her hair had always been fairly long. She felt naked without it. She also learned that she really did need a sleeping cap since her noggin was quite cold during the winter nights. But finally, at long last, her hair began to grow back. Much to her surprise, this time is was growing back in curls. She had a fetish and loved patting her fuzzy, soft blonde head. It was terrific growing hair again. She was beginning to feel “normal” again.

  3. “Your understanding of algebra is fuzzy !” A cloud of chalk dust arose from the table , where the duster had been forcefully thrown to emphasise the point . The remark was directed to one sorry individual , not the entire class .

    “Is it ? Shouldn’t the word be hazy ? ” He countered with a smile . He was always treading on toes , picking grammatical error in a teacher’s remark is academic equivalent of committing harakiri.

    The kids gasped . The teacher faltered , stumped for a moment. A moment later , he said , sticking to his guns-“No , it is not !It is fuzzy , and faulty and unsound , like a mouldy apple .”

    The bell rang, kids got up , the boy mumbled ” But apples are sweet” thrusting maths book into his satchel .

    The teacher emerged , pushed out by a tide of home-bound, eager , sweaty kids .

    “Hey you ! ” he had caught the boy again . “I heard that ” .

    “Apples are sweet , but mouldy ones aren’t , trust me .” The boy smiled his toothy grin . The teacher pumped his fist with an impish grin and disappeared in the sea of humanity.

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