I love how some of my hate comments say I bitch too much.
Of COURSE I bitch too much.
That's the point of blogging.
To blog is to bitch.
Look it up in the freakin' dictionary.
How am I supposed to write?
Today I had such a wonderful day at work! I met this customer who is sure to be my new favorite. I sold twice my goal for the day. And even though I worked ten hours I still left smiling! I love my job! I'm such a blessed girl!! Then I went over to my beau's house and came three times while making love. He's so good to me. He even made me an absinthe cocktail before bed. My life is so wonderfully happy right now sometimes I see stars even while I'm sleeping.
Oh Yeah.
That makes for GREAT entertaining writing.
After everyone's done cleaning their own vomit off their keyboards maybe they'll block my trite Pollyanna drivel from ever dazzling their computer screens again.
I didn't even wanna read that.
And it's the fucking truth.
NOBODY WANTS TO READ HOW AWESOME MY LIFE IS.
People wanna read things that make them laugh.
Things that make them feel a little less depressed about the fucked up lives they lead.
They wanna feel less alone, less bizarre, less pathetic and needy, less oh my god I'm the only asshole that thinks such horrible things I'm a terrible person I should have no friends.
If super loving, politically correct, soothing dialogue was really where it's at why is the TV sitcom dead?
Are people clicking on Youtube videos with heartfelt genuine messages or are they clicking on the ones of silly people doing stupid things?
That blog I wrote that pissed so many people off got more than four times as many hits as any of my average blogs do.
That's stupidly awesome.
I write for myself, for my best friends, for the asshole whose probably gonna remain in love with me for the rest of his life.
It continues to baffle me the way that complete strangers care to waste their time reading anything on here.
The other night my friend asked me if I'd seen all the comments that had been written and I didn't even know they were there.
And what a kick I got over the rantings of others.
I'm sure the intent was to insult me, to silence me, to make me think good and hard about all I'd done.
But I couldn't stop laughing.
Dick McNasty?
How can I not respect the critique from such a user name.
I hope he's moaning my name while he jerks off because I KNOW gay men secretly wish they could do me.
I own Chanel, for fuck's sake.
I felt like I was playing the role of one of those kids in high school movies, quiet, awkwardly shy kids, the ones who wished they were running with the popular crowd but knew a place would never be saved for her at the cafeteria table.
And then one night an impossibility occurred.
And she rushed out her front door in the morning to find her house had been toilet papered by the cool kids.
And rather than feeling humiliated, rather than hanging her head in shame at being so clearly picked on, an overwhelming, stupid grin appeared on her face.
They picked ME, she thought with glee.
They see me. They CARE. I fucking matter.
And of all the idiots in all the city, in all the world to obsess over, they picked MY less than self?
Well now, that's impression.
One I'VE made.
Whether you like it or not.
I'm . In. Your. Brain.
And I thought I had to take my top off to get that ingrained in any guys head.
Nope.
I just had to open my mouth.
My seductive, crimson clad, smiling mouth.
And nothing. And no one. Will silence me.
Enjoy the show.
No comments:
Post a Comment