21, 32, 40, 68…!
^Views over the past five days.
I was hoping to log on today and see this brilliant, beautiful parabola of views… 21, 32, 40, 68,
THREE HUNDRED AND NINETY FOUR BILLION.
Okay, maybe not that many. But views are important, and I like having at least a fairly steady rise, maybe not even that, just a lingering average is good.
I guess that’s okay, though, because it seems like as long as we keep posting, people get interested. Not necessarily people we know, either, I have a feeling that sometimes a few people out there get a bit finicky, maybe a little squeamish. I like to think people go through some sort of natural withdrawal when no longer exposed to our thoughts; a man of forty-six, married with two wonderful children, goes through a brief mid-life crisis. He logs onto his computer, and after a bit of web-surfing, he stumbles upon a blog.
“What the hell is aestheism?” he whispers softly. He begins to read, straining his eyes. It is, after all, late at night; his wife is in bed, and so are the kids.
He finds that he likes this blog, after all, he’s sure that aestheism isn’t even a real word but he likes it, dammit! This Thom kid, this kid that can type a modest 70 wpm, is spazzing out about bald people, and then this Miss Nolan comes back with a suggestion that the guys can communicate telepathically, what? Whoa. Where’d that come from?
He tells his wife about it the next day, “Honey, honey, y’gotta see…” He pulls it up, and now they’re talking about Smorgasbords and trying to get the word out about their blog, oh, those two! His wife, a bitter woman who won’t let her children have pets and walks around with curlers in her nasty hair and green cucumber face-pasts on, bans this website from the house, indefinitely! She’s also banned Clubpenguin, Runescape, Facebook, Yahoo!, and Wal-mart.com, among a variety of other inoffensive pages.
The man’s marriage is jeopardized. He was okay with her before, but now? Now that he’s up late at night with nothing to do except think about aestheism, all of that symbolism and that clean-cut, ridiculous-yet-intellectual humour, golly, he’s writhing on the ground like he hasn’t had a good snort of aestheism in weeks, and it’s been two days.
He divorces his wife. Hell, he wondered why he hadn’t before! He’d named his kid James Henry Trotter, for God’s sake, a reference to a kid with a horrible matriarchy. James and the Giant Peach. But his wife didn’t even notice, apparently, she was too busy bossing people around! And once divorced, he finds himself free to read all the aestheism he wants, and golly, he wouldn’t have it any other way; He sits on a stool in front of his laptop, Little Jim on his lap, and reads him stories and narratives and poems and things.