I don’t blame you… and I blame everybody.

 

Somebody somewhere has written a book defining the rules and etiquette of blogging.  Or maybe they blogged about it.  Either way, I didn’t read that shit, so join me for a little uncomfortable information sharing.

I’d like to start off by saying that yes, I know I said I would be busy exercising or pretending to exercise or whatever, but blueberry face is taking a marathon nap today and what else am I going to do?  Watch Mtv’s True Life: I want the perfect body and then two episodes of Angel back to back??  That was a rhetorical question.  Everyone knows David Boreanaz is an eyeball magnet.

I ate lunch sitting down for once and pretended to care about how many calories were in a green olive for the entire time it took to chew and swallow it.  And then I drank water and was like…. full yet? No.  Water is wet emptiness.  So I made a sandwich and ate it.  And read blogs.

And deleted some from my blogroll.  Because I’ve decided I’m not doing anybody any favors by having a blogroll anyway.  If I like to read you’re blog, I know where to find you.  If you’re suddenly not as interesting/artistic/or foul-mouthed as you once were because you found God/got married/ had children…. I’ll check back with ya later.

Also, where did number 52 go?  Does anyone else get pissed off when a number drops from the followers block? I’m not pissed off.  I just can’t figure out who it is.  Maybe I’d like to send them an email apologizing and begging them to come back because I really was getting used to 52.  It was my number for like…a whole day, so we were gettin kinda tight.

Dear 52,

I really hope I didn’t say something that offended you on my blog.  I value all of my followers (except the weird ones) and even most of the lurkers who really should follow, but can’t because of commitment issues.  It concerns me that you suddenly feel like you don’t need me anymore.  Especially since I really need you.   I mean, I’m obviously pretty desperate.  I’m following my own blog.  Mostly because I wanted 16 to be 17  and I only have one blog of my own or else it would’ve been 17 AND 18.  Now here you are.  Where are you?  The very first of my followers to ditch me.  Kick me to the curb.  Find a more fulfilling blog to creep on that possibly doesn’t have as many photos of babies eating tiny fruits or bitch sessions about absent fathers.  Are you turned off by labor and delivery stories that glorify parcopresis and giggle at the expense of gynecology utensils? Possibly have a weird thing about Duff from Ace of Cakes?  Did your great-great granny have a bike named Bill Murray??

 

What did I dooooo? I don’t need you.  I don’t even know who you are.  Yes I do, 52.  I didn’t mean any of that.  Whatever it is… I can change.  I want to be a better blogger.  For you.  Don’t give up on me.  I’ll do anything.  Tell me what font you want.  Tell me to stop saying wonky all the time.  I’ll do it.  I don’t care how much it hurts.

Truly-madly- deeply yours,

Soso

 

Okay. I just had to duck-tape a cabinet closed because Bluberry Butt is awake and wants to break some Pyrex and JG only put cabinet locks on the ones with poison, choking hazards, or booze.  And then we ran out.

Side note- blueberry begets blueberry.