Writing makes me feel pretty. Sort of.

I have been told quite a bit recently that people enjoy my blog, that it makes them laugh (hopefully only when it’s supposed to.  It’d be kind of weird if you were laughing at me telling a story about crying.  Weird and kind of cruel.  Don’t be cruel.  To a heart that’s true.)

 And some have even said that I should print it all out and make it into a book.  Now, most (all) of these people saying such nice things I either am related to and/or went to high to high school with, but still.  Compliments are awesome and make me feel pretty and possibly like it might be worth it to spend all the time during my children’s naptimes writing instead of sleeping or watching NCIS and knitting.

I mean, not monetarily worth it or anything since no one so far has offered to give me money for these thousands of nonsensical words I type on the page three to five times a week.  (HINT HINT anyone who has the ability to hire me.  I work cheap!  And will possibly spend most of whatever I write talking about my children’s poop!  EVERYBODY WINS.)

And not to get all sappy and whatever, but I really do appreciate the people who read this every time I post something, and who take the time to comment here.  It’s nice.  I’m sure it’s obvious but I don’t get out of the house much.  Most of my adult conversations are with someone on twitter or facebook or maybe the neighbors whenever I can trap them into talking to me.

And the people who comment on my blog.  It makes me feel like I’m a part of something, be it ever so small and worthless to the public at large.

But it’s mine.  And I’ll take it.

So thanks, guys.