Have you noticed how hard it is to read websites now? Pop-ups, opt-ins, sliding ads, banner ads on top of banner ads, ads placed right in the body of the post. It’s out of control!
I’ve grown so tired of closing ads on websites that I have removed all ads from my blog. This punishes my wallet more than anyone else but dammit, I’m aLl aB0ut tHe rEaDer exPer1enc3. I’d like to go on record: jerks use pop-ups. And yes, those email opt-in forms count. YOU KNOW IT, I KNOW IT. Jesus, if I want you in my life I’m perfectly capable of making that happen. Just ask the police.
I’m also dumping my newsletter. Experts say aspiring writers need to aggressively build mailing lists to simultaneously build their empires, but success has never been a part of my brand so I’m going to do the opposite. Besides, I’m sure ANY publisher who enjoys run-on sentences, caps lock and expertly selected gifs is probably already planning to get in touch.
I TRUST YOU UNIVERSE!
That said if you want the internet to tell you when I’ve published a new post you can still subscribe here. I’m not a monster.
Now that we’re done with my rant and self-congratulatory high fiving I’ve got to get you caught up on the rest of my super important life. (I don’t have a mailing list, after all.)
I went to see a doctor the other day because I seem to be looking better and better with age and I figured they might want to study me. During my visit the doctor was all (and I’m paraphrasing here): you’re 47? NO! You look fan-fucking-tastic! But also, you need to catch up on mammograms. Like, seven of them.
I guess none of the healthcare practitioners I see regularly thought to mention this titsuation when I turned 40. Or 41. Or 42. Or– you catch my drift. Thus, I’ve missed several opportunities to have my boobs crushed like a car in a compactor. This particular doctor was clearly troubled and said: I can’t believe no one has ever mentioned this to you before. And I said: no, people say I’m fantastic all the time. And she was all: I meant the part about the mammogram.
See that publishers? I’m very good at writing dialogue.
Recently I went to an event with a whole bunch of people that I haven’t seen since we graduated high school in 1990. It was nice to see that most of us haven’t matured much since my prime years in the 80s. Back then my weekends were packed with a bunch of stuff I wasn’t supposed to be doing and I remember thinking how tragic it was that my parents rarely went out on a Friday or Saturday night. Now that’s my actual dream life and I stop answering my phone and texts on Wednesday so I can avoid accidentally making plans to drink peach schnapps at the sandpit by Keith’s house.
On Sunday, July 14, 2019, I made two announcements on my Facebook fan pages. I told my SuperFan group that I had a photoshoot scheduled for the following day in a haunted building. I told my NotAsFanaticalFans that my sewer main was to be replaced on Monday, July 15. It is now WEDNESDAY, JULY 24 AND NOT A SINGLE ONE OF YOU SELFISH BEASTS HAS ASKED HOW EITHER POTENTIALLY LIFE-THREATENING EVENT WENT. I could have been a) smoked by a poltergeist, or b) torpedoed by turds.
I’m still alive, by the way.
Not that you give a flying fart.
Many years ago I heard my sister telling an aesthetician that the women in our family have such thin eyebrows that even one plucking misstep can leave us looking like a shaved cat. I thought she was exaggerating until I woke up the other morning and discovered a bald patch on my right eyebrow. (Your left.) (Like, if you’re standing in front of me the eyebrow that looks like my left eyebrow to you.) I guess one of my eyebrow hairs fell out when I was asleep and I also guess it was a very important one. Not to worry though, I’ve got a Sharpie.
Last summer a group of my friends got together and a discussion about affairs started up. Someone knew someone who knew someone through work who was having a bit on the side if ya know what I mean. We all agreed that it is always such a terrible, terrible situation. I’d like to tell you this is because we are good, ethical people but it’s actually because we all agreed that affairs simply take way too much effort. Hair removal, nice outfits, armpit smell checks, scheduling. If I don’t have time to finish writing a book and buy underwear without holes, I certainly don’t have time for sextracurricular activities.
Sometimes 2.0 comes home from work in the middle of the day and announces that he wants to “drop something off.” Dorey and I used to get very excited because we figured it might be prezzies, but we have learned that it actually means he has to poop. I’m thinking about having the locks on the house changed. We’ve also learned that if 2.0 takes his golf clubs to work he’s probably not really going to work. (Don’t worry, he ain’t got no nice underwear.)