No, you don’t get it. Yeah, I love blogging, and love reading and sharing blogs, having a blog, blah, blah. But what I mean is – I love my blog. Really love it.
Oh, all right, I’ll just say it. I am in love with my own blog.
As in the I can’t wait to see you, you’re the last thing I want to see before I go to bed and the first thing I want to see when I wake up kind of love. The I can’t get enough of you love. The what did I ever do before I met you kind of love.
And the worst thing is, I can’t stop looking at my blog. Any excuse I can make –“I wonder if there are any comments?” “Did I spell that right?” “Oops – didn’t realize it was still loaded in my browser.”
Yeah, right. Just another excuse to look at your own blog. Read that last brilliant post just one more time. Stare in astonishment at this thing you have created. This wonderful, marvelous, one-of-a kind expression of everything you are. But not the way a parent might stare at their child sleeping like an angel in the crib. No. That would be normal.
More like Narcissus staring into the pool at his own reflection all goddamned day long. IN LOVE WITH HIMSELF. Pitiful, isn’t it?
And don’t get me started talking about my relationship with statcounter. How many hits today? Any hits since I last looked 3 minutes ago? It’s like asking everyone you know to stand around the pool and stare with you, then looking up every 2 seconds to see how many are still standing there.
Well, it has to end. And soon. I’m starting to ignore my kids and husband. Letting work pile up on my desk. At this point, I’ll be here till 8 pm tonight getting caught up. My kids won’t get a proper dinner and I’ll be an even worse mother than I already am.
It’s sick, I tell you. Sick.
Look, I gotta’ go. But don’t tell this to anyone, ok? And don’t worry. I’ll be all right. I just had to get it off my chest.
(Photo: Caravaggio. Narcissus, (1598-99). Web Gallery of Art)