I’ve been looking at my blog hits again and realizing I’m never going to be rich and famous from writing here. See, major media outlets don’t really take notice until you have at least 50,000 daily hits. Even if you include webcrawlers, spam bots, and those eight people who think my blog is about sex in games, I’m still 49,983 readers short.
Maybe if I look at hits per week?
|No, that's worse.|
What about hits per month?
|"Hi Heather. Nice font!"|
Today was a bad day. Marv, my chauffeur called in sick. (Again! He was sick last month!) I had to drive Lyta to her private school myself. Dearest Lyta was just a joy, throwing her Gummi Bears at the less-fortunate Mormon kids walking to school.
“Now, now, dear,” I said as I popped my third Prozac of the day. “Don’t throw food. You know how testy those Mormons get.”
“But I’m just feeding them, mummykins,” she said. “I want them to be happy and shiny and beautiful like you.”
Oh, my dear Lyta. You can throw knives at them for all I care. Just keep telling me how wonderful I am.
Hm. That seems more “douche-ey” than “Dooce-ey.” I'll try again tomorrow.