I hate that I’m never enough for you.
You keep demanding all this SEO stuff. You seem so needy. We can’t be together unless you have major key words. You need hours of foreplay with Google Analytics or that Neil Patel blogging guy. You need graphics because readers are visual. Maybe I should just go watch old “South Park” episodes by myself. (Yup, “South Park” is trending on Google).
I wanted to be with you. Just the two of us, but you keep wanting threesomes with Instagram and Pinterest. I think we’re finally alone, but you’re off trying to collect Twitter followers. You keep reaching out to strangers. Why didn’t you tell me that you’re an exhibitionist?
I need to get you on Instagram, Pinterest, Delicious, and Stumble Upon. People like graphics. I told you when we got together I’m not into the group stuff. It’s like you need to hang with the guys from the Seahawks. (Yup, the Seahawks are trending on Google).
I’m a writer., so I’m supposed to be putting up photos of what? Dictionaries? Thesauruses? Dancing Kittens? (Yup…you got it).
You’re always out looking at those other blogging sites, wondering why I don’t provide contests, or buy you the latest SEO packages. Oh god, I can’t get even one of your posts to go viral. You show me the other blogs that are “freshly pressed,” and then you start to cry. I feel so inadequate.
I’ve tried guest posting on other sites. But when I do, you act so jealous. And you tell me the other sites didn’t really like me. Worse, the social media shares show that you’re right. It’s like I’m back sitting by myself in the cafeteria in fifth grade the summer after my mom died. I was going to write about that, but you said it wouldn’t get any shares. I can’t even be myself anymore. I’m supposed to be out trolling for subscribers, like some modern day Dracula or real estate agent. I feel so dirty.
You think I’ll always be around. But I’ve started blogging at the Huffington Post. Yeah, it’s hotter than you are. I’m probably not doing the right SEO stuff on that site either, but at least it makes me feel like more of a writer. You heard me, the Huff Po makes me feel like a REAL writer.
When we got together I explained that I’m old-fashioned, a Luddite and a Technophobe, but you said it would be ok. That you’d be gentle with me. Then you whine about all the other blogs in my Facebook Groups that are getting advertising revenue. You, blog, are costing me money. And you tell me to sell the Porsche to feed your insatiable appetite for attention. I’ll pick the Porsche: at least it doesn’t complain. (I think).
So blog, your days may be numbered. I know you want me to buy you more Facebook Likes, but you’ve had enough. I’m tired of trying to promote you. It’s called a writer’s “platform” not a writer’s pimping. I’m an introvert. Most of us writers are. I am sick of trying to figure out new stuff to say about dating.
If you want me I’ll be off reading Virginia Woolf,
Your Web Master (yes, I do get to call myself that),