DISCLAIMER: The following text may be considered offensive or triggering to any and all babies, the VCR Cafe, 1000 random Facebook acquaintances, tiny cats, and boobs in general.
Approximately 36 hours after I first invited 1202 people to my sparkly new public Facebook page, exactly 202 of you have clicked the little Like button.
I have no idea why you are doing this to me. This is terrible.
I mean, I get that I specifically asked you to "like" my page and that getting you to pay attention to me is essentially the entire point of my shameless self promotion (buy my book! Seriously, go buy it.), but you liking my page now means that I actually have to say something that matters to you. Worse, it means that I have to entertain you. Even worse than worse, you'll never be able to see all the jazz hands that happen when I'm thinking about how to entertain you. I'm wasting all of my jazz hands on 202 people who will never see them in action. Like I said, this is terrible.
The reality is you're 202 people with 202 different standards, opinions, and ways of life. Every time I tell you a story, or go on a little rant, or share something personal, that's 202 opportunities for ideas to be interpreted as I intended...or interpreted incorrectly. It's 202 opportunities for me to ask myself, "Do they understand what I'm trying to say? Do they understand me? Where are the 1000 other people? I'm trying to be fucking entertaining over here. Jerks."
You're all lovely, fully-grown humans, but I'd really prefer it all if all 202 of you were three month old babies. I'd just casually starve you for a few hours and then throw a boob at your face. Everyone would be entertained and satisfied for at least twenty minutes, and no one would complain.
But you're not three month old babies. You have standards. You've seen a few great boobs in your life. If I threw a boob at your face, the collective would probably just sigh and say, "eh, I've seen better." Although, if you forced me to interact with a three month old baby, my reaction would also be, "eh, I've seen better." Please never force me to interact with a three month old baby.
Since my baby metaphor was derailed by my own dislike of underdeveloped adults, I'm going to pretend that all 202 of you (and one day, all 2.2 million of you) are tiny cats, because tiny cats LOVE my boobs. No creature has ever been so comfortable and entertained with a borderline B cup. This is the real reason why you go full digital nomad, so you can work with kittens in your boobs from a cafe in Malaysia. Fuck three bedroom houses and no lines at Trader Joes. South East Asian cats in boobs is the real American Dream.