Was It Something I Said?

I go back and forth on whether I care about who's reading this blog, and who isn't.

Or, should I say-- who isn't... anymore.

I think it's funny that, on the day I stopped blogging, I was at 188 followers. Six weeks later, I recommenced blogatory activities, and I was up to 192. That's right, I had gained followers during the period in which only the doormice were making little poopie noises around here.

Since I've started blogging again, I've lost two followers. Seems to me I'm more popular when I'm not saying anything.

Of course, people like it when you play hard to get. "Ooooh, Daddy! You went away and abandoned me when I needed you most-- let me follow you!" Maybe I'm just too reliable. After all, I know that I'm going away with my wife all weekend and here I sit on Wednesday, churning out five blogs in a row to auto-appear at 7:18am on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, & Sunday. For you, my love. And yet, I lose followers.

This, I suppose, is why good girls are attracted to bad boys. My six weeks of silence on this blog was akin to a donkey-punch or a Danza slap (removing one's penis from a girl's mouth during oral sex only to slap her in the face with it whilst yelling, "MONA!"). Am I just too dependable? Is that what it is? Too... good? You want a bad boy, don't you? A bad blogger boy. Someone who will just up and leave you for a month-and-a-half to fend for yourself in your go-go boots and your fishnet tights on the side of the road in Harlem whilst uncaring Hindu cabbies in beat-to-shit Crown Vics splash you with the unkind sludge that has become an all-too-familiar accessory to your meaningless existence.

Whoa. I've got to stop watching On Demand.

Anyway, I've come to the conclusion that I probably turn people off with my abrasive, rancorous meanderings on this blog. And I'm okay with that. I probably also talk about my dick too much, and I'm okay with that, too. Men are obsessed with their dicks, whether they are man enough to talk about it or not, so why pretend like it's not there? I hate when it gets in the way when I cross my legs, by the way.

I used to be much angrier when people would unfollow me. I think I even wrote an Open Letter to Former Follower #178 or something like that and I totally bitched that motherfucker out. But I'm more mellow now. Perhaps working with the clinically insane has softened my tushie bones a tad, or moistened my wick. One of the two. Jeez-- there I go, talking about my dick again.

You know what I'm grateful for, since we're on the subject of me being inappropriate, that there's no male equivalent to "side-boob." Can you imagine if trousers were tailored in such a way as to permit side-dick? Maybe they have that problem in Scotland, but, thankfully, not here. We just have politics and football.