If a Woman Farts

The fact that no one is reading my blog is liberating.  No.  Really, it is.  I'm not just saying that to help pull me out of a funk, because I'm not in a funk.  I'm perfectly fine.  Having no, zero, zip readers is...what's the word I'm looking for here?  It'll come to me.  Sounds like.  Rhymes with.  It's on the tip of my tongue.  With no readers, I can say anything I want with no repercussions because, well, if a woman farts in the mall and no one smells it...

See what I mean?  I don't feel bad about saying that--even though it's ridiculous; everyone knows women don't fart--because no one is reading my blog.  How do I know this, you ask, even though you are really not here reading this?  No comments.  Wouldn't you think, if I had readers, that someone would feel a need to say something, anything, once in a while?

I have followers. Ten of them. They're not reading my blog, though.  They signed up to follow me because they wanted me to think that they were supporting me and my writing. There they are, all ten sitting together in a group on the right side of this page, smiling, waiting anxiously to see what I am going to say next.  Pretending to do this for me makes them feel good about themselves.  I imagine it's the kind of feeling you experience when you fake-smile and put money in a beggar's cup.  That feels good, right?  Not so fast.  What was that comment you whispered to yourself the last time you dropped a quarter into a beggar's cup and walked away? "Why don't you get a bleepin' job and work for a living like the rest of us?"  Remember that?  At least the beggar was worthy of a comment.

It's okay that no one is reading my blog.  No.  Really, it is.  I'm perfectly fine with it.  Having no, zero, zip readers is...what's that bleepin' word I'm bleepin' looking for here?  It'll bleepin' come to me. No. Really, it will.