This is the post where I bask in the glory of the Internet and its ability to transmit all the says I say around the globe.
Remember awhile ago when I begged you to further inflate my oft-pregnant ego and “like” the page on Facebook? Remember how you thought to yourself, “Wow, I never thought I’d see Emily get so low as to flat out beg for hits”? And remember how you liked me anyway because you are nice and you know I mean well but just lack any savvy to garner Internet kudos without begging? Yeah, I remember it too. And trust me, it was a proud moment when I got a whole cartload of likes on just one day. It gave me a wicked case of the kumbayas because only the day before I had gotten a particularly mean-spirited comment on an old post that made me feel all kinds of sad emoticons.
During the Day of The Like, I got a comment on the page from a reader in Australia (hi Jari-Ann!!!) that filled me with a happiness roughly on par with seeing a giant unopened package of Double Stuf Oreos on your counter all for you. So yeah, elation. The reader, who (I’m fairly sure) had never left a comment before, told me that she had been following me since C was born and that she always gets excited when she sees a blog update in her inbox. I know! I was so excited to hear this! And I promise I’m not making it up. You can even go and SEE her comment and know that it’s real and not a figment of my imagination.
I have always been aware of the possibility that maybe, just maybe, there are people out there in the other computerboxes who read my things and don’t really comment on them. That’s totally OK by me. Comments are wondrous and right and an angel gets its wings every time you leave them, but they are not everything. Angels do not need to fly and live perfectly beatific lives walking. All I really want is for my words to make you nod along and hopefully see the world in an invigorating new way that complements your own experiences. If you leave a comment, fabulous. If you don’t, that’s OK too. But I want those of you who don’t really interact with me here to know that I appreciate you and I’d like to get to know you. I’d love to know where you live and what makes you tick, not because I am a weirdo who will hunt you down and unload all my baggage on you (which I pretty much already do since I blog), but because I love how reading and writing and sharing makes the world a smaller, cozier place. You may have already noticed I have a raging, hormone-induced infatuation with the Internet. Well, the Internet is all people (except the bots, who I love too anyway because Horse_ebooks.) So that means I have a crush on you.
My parents sometimes took my brother and me to this science and nature museum when we were kids. There was a little exhibit of a fox’s den off the main drag of the museum – nowhere near the giant, shiny pendulum or the taxidermied lions who were rumored to have eaten an entire village in Botswana. You could crawl inside the softly lit cubby hole with brown carpet on the walls and feel safe and small. You could still hear all the tour groups and big kids on field trips outside the hole, but for a moment that tiny spot was yours. It smelled a bit like urine but what did you expect at a kids’ museum?
You all are my fox’s den, minus the pee smell. (This is a major compliment.) I feel safe and full knowing that you care. This Internet is a big black annoying forest where you walk into cobwebs and get them in your mouth and then spin around and spit like a crazy person, disoriented and angry. Somehow, though, we have all managed to find one another without much of a compass, and we have nestled in together in a safe enclave. Even if you’re quiet and don’t leave me a note, just know that the residual heat you leave in our tiny nest keeps me warm and I appreciate you.
Ooooh, Lord, kumbaya.