ICU

I may not have my HitsLink account anymore, but Blog City has a built-in tracker.  It’s okay.  It shows referral pages instead of IPs, so while it’s not giving me a total ego boner, it prevents me from paying to be 100% self-obsessed.  With this tracker, I’ve learned that people Google all sorts of previously-thought-of-as-un-Googlable things like what they want for their birthday.  Seriously.  “What do I want for my birthday?” is one of the most popular Google searches leading to Ephemera Etc.

More people are also finding me from Twitter, which is one of the reasons I got an account there.  In fact, my views for July are already more than double what they were in June and we’re not even halfway through the month yet.  Facebook is a big referrer, as are my friends’ blogs.  Another referrer is Blog City itself, and by that I mean that people are typing their names into the search field over there on the left (—–>).  I assume they want to know if I’ve mentioned them by name.  This would be fine if the people searching for their names were my friends, you know, people I actually hang out with and would have a reason to write about.  But the people searing for themselves are not my friends; they’re people I stopped being friends with for legitimate, unambiguous reasons, some of them so long ago that I if I ever did write about them, it’s been years by this point.

Now, I’m not going to lie and say that I never talk about these people.  I do talk about these people.  They come up in conversation when the questions “guess who’s on welfare?” or “guess who’s still a drunk mess?” are asked.  I talk about them with my actual friends because we are bad people who enjoy the misfortune of those who have wronged us.  But I don’t talk about them here.  (Except now.  Obviously.  But not by name.  Because that’s dumb.)

I guess I should be pleased that most of my ex-friends are freaking stupid when it comes to the Internet.  They and all the ex-boyfriends who are still trying to wrap their heads around the term “search engine” are making it easy for me to convince myself that I’m hard to get over.

Do you think Mel Gibson made The Passion of the Christ because he thought “Someday, I’m going to get away with being a gigantic fucking cockboil douchebag and everyone will be like ‘it’s cool’ because I KNOW THE LORD.”

Shows how much he knows.  Well.  Kind of.  It worked for a bunch of popes.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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