Featured Post

Seething Cakes of Hatred

Making pancakes, as I learned at AP's birthday bash at the beach this weekend, is an unbelievably tedious chore. I don't know why I...

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Your Bitch

I looked at my stats today on Statcounter. I almost never do that. When I first started blogging I checked them all the time. I wanted to know who was visiting and how long they stayed on the site. I wanted to count how many times people returned, and I couldn't wait for my hits to reach 1,000 or 10,000 or whatever.

As of this moment, I've had 381,166 hits. I have no idea what that means. Probably 80,000 of the hits are from me anyway. What matters to me is that I have found some amazing people through blogging. Amazing cool friends and, unfortunately, a handful of amazingly two-faced jerks.

After I checked my stats, I wrote this. I'm not sure why.

I'm here when you need me. I'm an exhibitionist, and I'm baring it all for your pleasure.

It's a Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon at the office. You're bored and decide to surf on over to Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven and see what's happening in my world of gay softball and CC Slaughters and lovesick puppydog eyes and burning lust over wrestlers and bartenders.

You're up late one night and can't sleep, so you browse through my archives and read about Snapple lids and volunteerism and Charmed.

The weather outside is miserable, so you're parked in front of your computer with a mug of steaming coffee, and you're reading all about me and Thor. Or me and Crunchy. Or me and Pony. Or me and [Insert The One True Love of My Life and Soulmate Here]. You know everything there is to know. And yet, there is so much you don't know. Things I can't (or won't) tell because I still have to protect somebody or someone's feelings or their privacy or whatever - even if they didn't give a shit about my feelings or my sanity or my well-being.

You read, and you decide...

Hot Toddy is:

Maybe you write e-mails to your other blogger friends and say shitty things about me, not realizing that e-mails can be forwarded and just may, someday, wind up in my hands.

Maybe you read and just aren't impressed, so you move along to somebody who floats your boat. Someone more politically savvy or someone with shirtless pics on his profile.

Take what you want from me. Watch me. Judge me. Love me. Hate me. Fantasize about me. Dream of me. Push my face down into the pillow. Pull my hair. Spank me.

I feel dirty, and I like it.

No comments: