This Isn't Spam: A Love Letter to my Most Loyal Readers

Hi everybody,

When I say "everybody," I'm really speaking to the random foreign people and basement-dwelling weirdos who comment on my blog with paragraphs of ungrammatical information about headphones I should buy, nude celebrities, and ways to get more "visitors" to my "nifty site." How I love these freaks, because they are my only fans. They get me. They do.

I just know that the next time my not-so-nice boyfriend leaves me stranded at a gas station or on a highway median, I can call upon one of these comrades and they will race to be there for me. They'll pick me up, give me a knowing, sympathetic look, caress my cheek, and say, "Oh sweetie! Not again." And I'll just nod, because yes, it happened again. And then we'll go to breakfast and I won't have to pay because I've been through a lot--and it won't even be a big deal if I order the most expensive thing on the menu (a five egg farmer's omelet with a side of Belgian waffles, a hot mug of chicory coffee, and an entire package of Hershey's Hugs) because, like I said, I've been through a lot.

These folks are the ones who support me and listen to me no matter what. When I start in on one of my maniacal rants or one of my crime sprees, they don't try to stop me. They just stand back and watch, or if I'm on the lam, they let me warm my hands by the heat of their trashcan fires. That time I freaked out and started screaming because my boyfriend didn't want to pay $18 for a lobster roll, they didn't tell me I was overreacting. Because I wasn't overreacting. I mean, people put their lives on the line to catch lobsters. There are kids growing up without dads so that abusive jackholes like my boyfriend can enjoy a lobster roll while strolling around a farmer's market on a crisp fall day. And he won't pay a lousy 18 bucks?!! What the FUCK is wrong with this world?

When all of my other friends had abandoned me because I wouldn't stop chain smoking cigars in their homes after they politely asked me not to, and because I kept begging them for reassurance that I looked good when I got that pageboy haircut and replaced all my jeans and T-shirts with power-bitch pants suits, it was these loyal readers who had my back. I mean, literally. One of them took me to get one of those hot stone massages and it felt SO good on my lats.

And why shouldn't I have a hot stone massage after a long week of work or a particularly nasty argument with my butcher? Sometimes he cuts the pork chops too thin, for fuck's sake! If I wanted a fucking thin pork chop for dinner I'd have my bastard dick boyfriend butcher my meat. Am I right? And you know, sometimes I work up to four full hours two to three days a week. When I get home on those days, I'm fucking spent. I've fucking had it. I deserve some peace in this life. I deserve some peace and I deserve a fully loaded Audi R8 GT Spyder, plus 4 months of vacation time a year so I can go to fantasy baseball camp.

But I digress. I just want to acknowledge that there are a select few people in this world who truly get me and who are there for me. These people, my spammers, will be in my wedding someday. They will be godparents to my children. One of them may even get to keep my firstborn if he can help me turn a room full of straw to gold and I can't guess his name in three tries. And I'd be OK with that. So thank you, my true friends. Thank you for reading and thank you for your useful comments. I will print out your comments, fold them up, store them in a keepsake box I bought at Michael's, and cherish them always.  

Til we meet again,

L