Sometimes I stay up too late, writing. I tell myself at least it’s not Facebook and that gives me a righteous few minutes but it is late at night and my face will bear testimony to it tomorrow. And what can I tell my co-workers? “Yeah, stayed up real late. Writing and shit, you know. Real cool stuff.” No, I mean – no.
Ever stay up way too late and look like a panda the next day? I texted Elsa.
Ya. She replied. I waited a moment.
Why? What doing? I asked.
Facebook haha she replied.
My spam folder isn’t the cheerfully sodden corner it used to be – I am, although it would have previously defied all belief, actually nostalgic thinking of it. The new spam is far too long-winded, definitely rated-G and severely lacking in the ‘dirty imagination’ department. It should probably be styled as new spam! because it’s so terribly positive.
I don’t know if I can adequately convey the completely oppressive nature of it’s technical positivity – well, once when I’d stayed up all night I entertained the director and her accountant with an impromptu sketch of ‘when Mormons go bad’. There was even a dance (energetic but not sexy).
Probably my number one advice to would-be suitors would be to not quote Oscar Wilde out of context. To me, specifically. Paraphrasing is even more, shall we say, frowned upon.
Especially – I’m looking at you, guy who has no idea this blog exists or otherwise would plagiarize it – if between the puffs of cigarette smoke you blow on my face as seduction, you happen to mention that you’ve never read Wilde outside of his quotes. Do not raise your eyebrow after such an utterance.
I’m also looking at you, guy who doesn’t read anything on the Internet except porn – wait, sorry, guy who reads nothing on the Internet – because mocking my love of Wilde by asking if he were some new hotshot hipster writer with a beard made me die, a little inside, right there in the passenger side of your sport utility vehicle.
In essence – well, in essence you should already have said something better. You should have said something you thought of yourself.
Someday I’ll bring home a decent paycheck, and my furniture won’t be a park bench, and the cat will have better toys than Isolde’s old Nordstrom bag.
I’ll have full bars all the time, because I won’t have to steal the neighbors wifi (password: pumpkin2011) and when I do so blogging will be so, so much more rewarding.
I think the robots heard (saw?) that I was denouncing their robotic sex vending shenanigans (great name for a band) and now there is nothing but chaste spam in my folder. Really. It all concerns itself with search engine optimization, and it’s written with a very concerned tone, as if the spam robot is my concerned elderly aunt and I am wearing a hopelessly frumpy dress. You have a very lovely figure, my dear, if only you would show it. Let me take you over to Mrs. Schneider’s so that you can have your colours done. The internets will never ask you out or tell all the nice people googling ‘hard bitch daycare’ to come see you if you don’t do something about the way you look . . .
Another round of searches, fair readers (and the perhaps inevitable troll hiding in your ranks).
1) movie “hard bitch daycare” (Oh, so we’re talking about porn. We are talking about porn now, aren’t we? I wanted to believe it was an unreleased Sarah Jessica Parker vehicle.)
2) at it (Well, sure, why not. You don’t have to explain yourself, internets.)
3) if everyone naked (Probably more the result of entry-level philosophy than anything else.)
4) hd xart (No . . . idea.)
5) naked at daycare (This happens daily, definitely. Only it’s little kids and it involves poo.)
6) “hard bitch daycare” (You people are insatiable. I wonder, do you stay and read? Or just recoil in disappointment and move on?)
Every so often the director asks me how many blog followers I’ve accrued, and I dutifully report, and she says “Well, that’s quite a lot, isn’t it?” and I smile, dutifully and tightly. Five was a lot. Twenty was a lot. And now 207 is a lot.
Once the number went down by one instead of going up by one. I didn’t think she remembered the previous number but, of course, she did, and immediately squawked with dismay “Someone left you!” I nodded, mumbled that the word commonly, well rather exclusively employed was ‘unfollowed’, all the while watching her shake her head as if I’d made some terrible error. “You should stop writing about yourself, is what it is,” she concluded. “People want to hear about what happens in the life of a teacher, not a Lola,” I nodded, dutifully, wondered if ‘dutifully’ was going to be the word best used to describe my life.
“Exactly,” said her daughter, who had just entered the room, who used ‘exactly’ as a greeting, who then said nothing else as her mother continued to tell me what people wanted to hear.
Today’s post is another round of searches, sponsored by the endless imagination of the collective internet unconscious.
1) Unknown search terms (why are they unknown? Is Google keeping secrets from me? Highly unsatisfactory)
2) christmas daycare worker humor (is there really an internet-appetite for this?)
3) fancy dad (people have been searching for this but I imagine they are just looking for some sort of bedazzled father and it has nothing specifically to do with the Chronicles)
4) naked lola wordpress (finally displaced by ‘fancy dad’)
5) daycare for sale point pleasant (this is disappointingly humdrum)
6) grizzled naked blog (whoa, is ‘grizzled naked’ a thing? I feel like the director when I tried to explain ‘grime’ to her and she kept saying “dirty music?” only now I am the olds. Or not. I’m scared to look this up and get unwanted image search scarring. Is ‘grizzled naked’ some sort of art house segue from torture porn? There’s always one really unsavoury search term, isn’t t here?)
I am again amused and mystified. Thank you readers, thank you internets.
My spam comments are full of praise from robots selling Dutch sex, electric cigarettes and search engine optimization. Blogging for the most part – the mechanics of it – is a bland experience, but whenever I stumble into the spam comments folder I feel as if I’ve stumbled into a blue alley in a foreign country where suddenly your mind races and you realize that if they’re selling Spanish Fly next to the cigarettes it really isn’t your kind of alley.
Or at least not mine. Maybe it is, for you.
Daycare Chronicles 