fan appreciation day

From time to time I like to check to see how many people subscribe to my blogs on Google Reader because I measure my self worth by how many people are tuning in. And I also like to check my site meter to see about Bloglines but they've blocked me from Sitemeter at work and my home computer time is limited and I get frustrated that I can't tell who you are by your IPs anymore so instead of trying to pinpoint you on a cyber map I've just given up completely. Plus I check my own damn blog so many times a day that I have probably doubled the daily hit number. I don't know why I do this. Do you read your blog?

I know, I know, I know it shouldn't matter who's reading, and I should only be doing all this writing to have a (heavily edited- how disturbing is that?) personal record of what I'm going through and I should be a grown up about things and realize that I'm not in high school any more and no matter whether you like me or not I'll still have bills to pay and bedsheets to change and five pounds to redistribute. Whether I have one reader or one thousand I'll still feel like a perpetual 'tweener, all gangly in the wrong places and worried if I'm the only one who isn't sure whether you can tell that my shirt is the right brand or my jeans are rolled right and whether the cute boy believes me that a bee stung me on my cheek and that is no way no how a pimple. I'll still be concerned whether the coolkids think I'm one of them or think I am a total wannabe. Should I start smoking? Maybe?

I really want a career in writing. Really, really. Not just a little bit. I know I should do something about it but I'm afraid that I am going to choke. Sometimes I don't know whether to use whom or who so I skirt the issue and use weird combinations of pronouns and direct objects. How will anyone ever accept me if I can't even use my own language properly?
I am relentless when I see an error in journalism.
Projection, much, crazylady?
I'm afraid that if someone asks me to write something it is going to be all wrong and people are going to laugh at me. And not in the way I like to make people laugh. I'm afraid I can't do anything funny that doesn't involve jokes about your mom or poking fun at myself and what if the people who write the checks don't like the fact that I'm banging their mothers or locking myself in the stockroom with a dram or seven on company time. (I'm not, btw, doing either of those things. Presently.)

I've given up on writing a book. I can get through about seven paragraphs and then I lose interest and motivation. I have a blog about that, you know. Oh, of course you don't, because I'm embarrassed that it might not be the best blog ever and you'll be all like, "come on already with the blogs. Just put everything here" so I haven't published it. I'd share the address with you, but Blogger has me under investigation over there because they think it's a spamblog. As if. Do they think I would ever chance my shot at hitting it big time on their templates?

I'm really good at anecdotal stuff, but is there a market for that? Can you tell me how to tap it?

I never know what you guys care about. I hardly know what I care about. I just toss a bunch of crap up here and let it fall where it may. I'm assuming that isn't the way the do it in the biz. There is probably some sort of planning involved, an outline maybe. I might have to make sense or actually know something about something. Horror of all horrors! I pretty much know nothing about nothing, I'm sure that is quite apparent here. The thing I like about my job now is that I can just go there and do it and know I'm doing a relatively good job. Or at least tricking people into thinking that I'm doing a good job. One of these days they are going to realize that I should never leave the house without a helmet and elbow pads and the buses that I've been taking are twice as long as the ones someone like me should be riding in and sometimes I pee my pants a little bit when I sneeze and I like to draw up ideas for new tattoos instead of taking notes when I'm sitting in the Mayor's Office with Very Important Douchebags. Until that day comes, I'm making a pretty good living doing what comes easy to me. A challenge might break me. Are you ever scared at work? I'm scared to be scared at work.

Oh, so my Reader count. Forty. Forty! I think my mom might have forty gmail accounts and has linked each one here. It's the only explanation. I don't even think I know forty people. I have eighteen people following me over there in the corner to the left. Nineteen if you count me. I think I'm going to stop though, I'm a little over myself. Yawn. Blah, blah, blah, all the time, right? And on and on and on about the kid I think is so smart and beautiful and yammering about using eye make up to deal with cancer. Really? Am I serious? Slapping the VP hopeful with a hotdog? What the hell is my problem? How do you stand it?

Anyway, long post longer, thank you. And you and you and you times forty. Thank you for making me feel like I'm good at something, and interesting, and worth your time each day even if you only come here to point fingers or shake your head. And if you have a blog and I don't know about it, I would love to read it. A few of you comment with IDs that don't show your urls. Maybe you don't have one, is it possible? How do you talk about you when no one is in the room? Sometimes I talk to my cat, but she gets bored so I'm left with the wall.

And you guys.