Suck It, Dooce

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Okay, I just peed a little. Don’t tell anybody. But when I checked my blog, as I do obsessively every five minutes occasionally, I noticed that I have SEVEN FOLLOWERS. And I'm pretty sure I only have one mother and one husband, so . . . hot damn. Yes, I realize Dooce has like 17 bazillion followers (and better hair, that bitch), but for me, seven is huge. Like, break-out-the-emergency-hooch-before-lunch huge. I mean, I’ve been slogging away at this thing for a month now and have a grand total of three comments to show for it, two of which I wrote myself under assumed names. Now, I think I might actually hear breathing out there.


You know what this means though, don’t you? Unlike at my house and in my classroom, I’m not just talking to myself anymore. I’m not sure how to feel about this. It’s such a unique sensation for me, my voice making sounds and all. Maybe three parts flattered and seven parts holy fuck. It was sort of comforting in a way to just go about my new little hobby unnoticed. When I said something stupid, there were no witnesses. It was just a little harmless mental masturbation. Now, I suddenly have performance anxiety. What if I can’t get it up? Oh, wait, I’m a girl. Bad analogy.


I just don’t think I like this one little bit. I don’t know who the hell you freaks are, but I think all y’all need a hobby. Or cable.


Go on now. Shoo . . . .

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