About six months ago, I was cleaning and alphabetizing my book closet, and I thought, as I sneezed and rearranged, that I have far too many books. Does having so many books make me something? A dork, a nerd, a librarian? Maybe just a reader?
Then for no particular reason, I put down my copy of Bronte's Villette, walked over to the computer, started a blog, and wrote this post. I put zero thought into the name of the blog or the tagline, and I had no clear idea why I was posting what I was posting or if anyone would ever read it. I didn't know if I would ever post again, either. Some days, as in recently, I have not had more than a few minutes to throw a picture at you and say I'd see you tomorrow. Other days I wrote thousands of words about why I hate it when people act like modern womanhood is so awesome. And still other days I have written nothing at all, either because I was in the Andes and out of internet range, or because I was so hung over or depressed that I didn't have the will to say "boo."
Six months later, the only thing remarkable about my internet diary is its tendency to attract smart, sensitive, gorgeous readers. If you click in here and read what I produce even a few times a month, this includes you. But it occurs to me that some of you might not be fully aware of the smart, sensitive, beauty of all of the others. Let's fix that, shall we?
I address here my lurkers, because I love them just as much as I love the rest of y'all, even though they have not told me who they are.
If you are my beloved Brazilian reader, you want to read my blog between seven and ten times a day. In my imagination, Brazilian reader, you are a dark and stormy princess living in a palatial villa. You sit on your hairless backside and eat candied walnuts all day fantasizing about marrying Prince Adam Heath Avitable, the Grand Duke of Florida Internet Excellence. I am sorry to tell you, Brazilian reader, that the Duke is already married and even if he were not, I recently caught him flirting with my beloved Magdalena Grand Duchess of Boston Internet Excellence. Be careful, Brazilian reader, who you fall in love with on the internet. Next thing you know you'll find two people you didn't even know you introduced totally making out with each other.
Then again, you might be my beloved Cork, whom I have named in my mind for the county in Ireland. Cork Reader, you probably recognize my left eye as pictured on this blog as about 90% Irish, as it is. In my imagination, Cork reader, you are a sheep farmer with a good strong jaw and adorable ears that stick out just a little bit. You virtuous and strong and you are married to a woman of such uncommon beauty and intelligence that you are half ashamed that you click into my blog every day just to hear me say the F-word, which to you, in all your innocence and virtue, is like porn. Well, Cork reader, it's the least I can do for you. You doubled my sitemeter continent count to 2 and you made me feel just a little more Irish. As if I needed that.
Or you might be my stoic Pennsylvanian. Snod reader, I think you know who you are. Yeah, you. Sometimes you desert me for months on end, but you always return with your comical domain and IP address and your stony silence. In my imagination, Snod reader, you sit at a desk all day running your hands over spreadsheets and longing for a better blog to read. May I offer, for your consideration, beloved Snod reader, science and candy? or how about haiku and babies? And if you were just too shy to ask, dear Snod, I can offer you Asian gorgeousness. Oh no, don't thank me. What are faceless friends for?
Canadian reader, I used to have this fantasy about you. The fantasy was that you were actually you, and you know, now that I think about it, I do have a newly minted lurker in Tokyo. Oh wait. I have confused myself.
What I meant to say, Canadian reader, is that even though I know Canada is big, please let all those other Canadian lurkers that I am ok with it. You all are an amalgam of Canadian goodness, kind of like Dagny Princess of Canadian Internet Excellence. Let her know, since you are leaving the house, how much I thrive on her grammatically perfect and syntactically judicious posting. While you are being cool like that for me, please let toss a letter in a bottle to Dan, a dad who is walking 78 miles to raise money to help parents who have recently lost a child. If you have ever given a stripper a dollar, get out of here and give a little something to Dan.
Of all my lurkers, Google reader, you are the only one who distresses me. Who the fuck are you? In my imagination, Google reader, you are holed up in your office in Mountain View, California, being the man and reading my blog either for your own amusement - or to bring down a mighty reckoning on me. Either way, your visits make me all shivery. Couldn't you just comment? Just to let me know that I am not, in fact, hastening the apocalypse?
There comes a time in every slavish gooey blog love linking post when a girl must realize that too much of a good thing is indeed too much of a good thing. This is therefore part one of three.
Now, if you are reading this and thinking "that stormy bitch didn't link to me"* - well, haven't you ever heard about saving the best for last? And if you are thinking "That bitch linked to me first - she must think I am not top tier" - well, did you notice that I linked to unequivocally fabulous people in this post? You didn't? Well then obviously you are a fool for not clicking every single link. Quit your crying, and get to work.
(I love you).
*If you wish to be included in part two or three, comment. If you like the folks you found here, link to this post and spread the word.