Okay. First of all: Are there really 42 people who want to read my rants? Really? Check out my followers. Wow. I'm both honoured and filled with guilt. I feel like a drug dealer who gave you bad cocaine cut with Old Dutch, and now you only want that kind because it makes you imagine pygmy elephants singing opera, which is rather funny.
I'm very sorry. Flattered, but sorry.
Mostly flattered.
As a gift to the sheeple, I am going to do something new. As of this post I will begin replying to the majority of comments like other bloggers do. You know what I mean: A few people write comments and I reply to them with my own comment. I haven't done it much in the past, but that's because I've generally thought myself above it. I don't write here so other people can read it; I do it for me. This is my platform on which I create skillful masterpieces of literature that do not require the feedback of others to be worthy or beautiful.
...Alright, alright. I'm just lazy. But the fake reason sounded better.
Truth be told, I love comments. I live for comments. I read each and every one enthusiastically. I post something and I hover around the computer waiting for them to start pouring in. I really do, and I'm ashamed of it. It's horribly unhealthy to be reliant upon external sources of validation, isn't it?
Isn't it?
I also love random emails from people I've never met, unless they want me to buy a fake Rolex or make my penis bigger.
My penis is plenty big, thanks. So big that I've been gifted a drawer full of fake Rolexes. It's a good life, being this well endowed.
I'm just really bad at replying, because my life, if one can't tell by reading my blog, is filled with commitments and chaos. I still have the funniest email sitting in my inbox from a reader who's weaning experience involved perfume and other original smells and tastes. I'm like, beyond impressed. This chick is highly creative and kind of insane. My type of person. I think we need to be friends, but I have yet to reply to her so I don't think I'm sending the right vibe. I just hope she still reads me in between sticking the pins in my voodoo doll (does she have pretty hair, my doll? She should if you're going for realism).
So, my gift to everyone is to actually start replying to comments and emails more often. My 42 followers deserve at least that. I want those kind words of adoration to keep flowing in, so I'm going to have to up my game and let you know I care.
Because we all know a giant penis can only carry me so far in this world.
It was Geekster's grandma's 89th birthday on Saturday, so we spent the weekend visiting her and the in-laws in Peterborough, Ontario. Did you know they have a free zoo there? It's just a little one, but it also has a water park and a train to ride and a bunch of other stuff to keep my whiny gremlins amused. We went on Sunday, along with great-grandma and her walker. If I can walk through a zoo at 89 I will wear a freaking superhero cape to celebrate how spry I am. All I could do yesterday when walking next to her was be sad that we're only related by marriage; Oh, to have those longevity genetics! They could really offset my saturated fat intake.
Today, it's back to the grind: I have a house to clean, then my own house to clean, a garden to weed, food dishes to create and a Jon and Kate Plus 8 party to host.
I never used to be a huge fan of the show. I mean, I liked the premise of this previously infertile couple now raising twins and sextuplets - and cute ones, I might add - but after watching it a few times I concluded it was more of a "reality" show than a reality show, if you know what I mean. It's chock full of fake family fun, with a mother who pretends not to be a narcissist (and fails miserably, I might add), a father who tries not to look like he's gasping for air under the crushing weight of his wife's controlling desire for fame and fortune, and kids who live their lives photographed and videotaped as they travel from resort to theme park, exhausted, in the name of ratings.
After watching a handful of episodes, I stopped; they were all the same. And besides, if I want mishaps and mayhem I don't need to turn on the television, I just have to walk into the playroom.
But then the drama started surfacing. Jon has a twenty-three-year-old school teacher girlfriend? Kate might be sleeping with the married bodyguard? Oh, now this is juicy.
The Good Maven tells herself she shouldn't watch that trash, as doing so is contributing to the exploitation of those poor children. Jon and Kate should be left alone to work things out in private and not under the world's microscope.
The Evil Maven justifies her desire to throw a Jon and Kate Plus 8 season premiere party by saying that if the Gosselins didn't want people peering into their lives, they wouldn't have a damn television show. If Kate wants ratings, we'll give her ratings. It's the least we can do. Think of the children's college funds! ... And Kate's pedicures!
I am a sick and bad person for loving that family's drama. I own that. On the other hand, watching their lives crumble on international television takes the focus off of Gutsy's health issues and Spawnling's toddler terrorizing for at least thirty minutes. It allows me to stall on making important appointments, getting any paid writing contracts sealed, or decluttering the basement.
My dysfunction brings about the beautiful gift of procrastination. Is that so wrong?
Is it? Please tell me.
(You're right. But let's pretend it isn't.)
Have a great Monday.
I'm very sorry. Flattered, but sorry.
Mostly flattered.
As a gift to the sheeple, I am going to do something new. As of this post I will begin replying to the majority of comments like other bloggers do. You know what I mean: A few people write comments and I reply to them with my own comment. I haven't done it much in the past, but that's because I've generally thought myself above it. I don't write here so other people can read it; I do it for me. This is my platform on which I create skillful masterpieces of literature that do not require the feedback of others to be worthy or beautiful.
...Alright, alright. I'm just lazy. But the fake reason sounded better.
Truth be told, I love comments. I live for comments. I read each and every one enthusiastically. I post something and I hover around the computer waiting for them to start pouring in. I really do, and I'm ashamed of it. It's horribly unhealthy to be reliant upon external sources of validation, isn't it?
Isn't it?
I also love random emails from people I've never met, unless they want me to buy a fake Rolex or make my penis bigger.
My penis is plenty big, thanks. So big that I've been gifted a drawer full of fake Rolexes. It's a good life, being this well endowed.
I'm just really bad at replying, because my life, if one can't tell by reading my blog, is filled with commitments and chaos. I still have the funniest email sitting in my inbox from a reader who's weaning experience involved perfume and other original smells and tastes. I'm like, beyond impressed. This chick is highly creative and kind of insane. My type of person. I think we need to be friends, but I have yet to reply to her so I don't think I'm sending the right vibe. I just hope she still reads me in between sticking the pins in my voodoo doll (does she have pretty hair, my doll? She should if you're going for realism).
So, my gift to everyone is to actually start replying to comments and emails more often. My 42 followers deserve at least that. I want those kind words of adoration to keep flowing in, so I'm going to have to up my game and let you know I care.
Because we all know a giant penis can only carry me so far in this world.
It was Geekster's grandma's 89th birthday on Saturday, so we spent the weekend visiting her and the in-laws in Peterborough, Ontario. Did you know they have a free zoo there? It's just a little one, but it also has a water park and a train to ride and a bunch of other stuff to keep my whiny gremlins amused. We went on Sunday, along with great-grandma and her walker. If I can walk through a zoo at 89 I will wear a freaking superhero cape to celebrate how spry I am. All I could do yesterday when walking next to her was be sad that we're only related by marriage; Oh, to have those longevity genetics! They could really offset my saturated fat intake.
Today, it's back to the grind: I have a house to clean, then my own house to clean, a garden to weed, food dishes to create and a Jon and Kate Plus 8 party to host.
I never used to be a huge fan of the show. I mean, I liked the premise of this previously infertile couple now raising twins and sextuplets - and cute ones, I might add - but after watching it a few times I concluded it was more of a "reality" show than a reality show, if you know what I mean. It's chock full of fake family fun, with a mother who pretends not to be a narcissist (and fails miserably, I might add), a father who tries not to look like he's gasping for air under the crushing weight of his wife's controlling desire for fame and fortune, and kids who live their lives photographed and videotaped as they travel from resort to theme park, exhausted, in the name of ratings.
After watching a handful of episodes, I stopped; they were all the same. And besides, if I want mishaps and mayhem I don't need to turn on the television, I just have to walk into the playroom.
But then the drama started surfacing. Jon has a twenty-three-year-old school teacher girlfriend? Kate might be sleeping with the married bodyguard? Oh, now this is juicy.
The Good Maven tells herself she shouldn't watch that trash, as doing so is contributing to the exploitation of those poor children. Jon and Kate should be left alone to work things out in private and not under the world's microscope.
The Evil Maven justifies her desire to throw a Jon and Kate Plus 8 season premiere party by saying that if the Gosselins didn't want people peering into their lives, they wouldn't have a damn television show. If Kate wants ratings, we'll give her ratings. It's the least we can do. Think of the children's college funds! ... And Kate's pedicures!
I am a sick and bad person for loving that family's drama. I own that. On the other hand, watching their lives crumble on international television takes the focus off of Gutsy's health issues and Spawnling's toddler terrorizing for at least thirty minutes. It allows me to stall on making important appointments, getting any paid writing contracts sealed, or decluttering the basement.
My dysfunction brings about the beautiful gift of procrastination. Is that so wrong?
Is it? Please tell me.
(You're right. But let's pretend it isn't.)
Have a great Monday.