Gone With The Wind

I can't take it anymore. I have been writing until my fingers have practically fallen off, and still I get paid only $1.50 for every ONE THOUSAND people who read each article.

So here's what I'm thinking, that I'll put an ad in the paper with a link to my articles, a request to read them, and a promise that the one thousandth person who comments will receive a reward. But by offering a reward I would have to consider it a contest, and by considering it a contest I would have to adhere to the guidelines set by some arbitrary contest committee who will probably tell me I'm breaking Article Whatever of the Constitution of the United States. And really, all I could pay the person is what I would be receiving, which is a whopping $1.50. Who would care? 

And the really sad thing is – only three people read my blog anyway, including myself. Of course I haven't told anybody else that I write a blog, but I'm considering letting other people know. I have difficulty sharing this kind of writing, though, because it's kind of like writing a diary that I'm asking people to read. What's the point?

Glad I asked. I feel compelled to write. I feel compelled to share my heart and soul. I can't share it with my soul mate (sadly, nobody can stand being with me longer than six weeks, or maybe it's that I can't stand being with them for longer than six weeks – I don't know – I'll think about that tomorrow). I'm so Scarlett O'Hara.

So I am left with you, whoever you are, if you exist. Whatever. Frankly I don't give a damn. I'm so Rhett Butler.

If I did care, I'd tell you where to find me.

OK, maybe I do care.