I Only Sell-Out for Cash Money

I’m not copying Dawn, I swear, but I took my Blogher ads down.

I’m ambivalent about advertising, so if I’m going to put ads on my site, it has to be worth it to me. Not spiritually worth it, monetarily worth it. That’s why it’s called sell-out, not giveaway-out. I can be bought. So, while the “wrinkle cream reviews” link makes me cringe a little, I’ll keep it because it can go “below the fold” and, most importantly, they paid me cash money up front instead of using whatever fancy logorithm blogher uses (I think they divide by 0).

I’m a bit sensitive to advertising, (I <3 Sociological Images) and most ads make me cringe in one way or another, so I have to be compensated for my pain and suffering. But I don’t get enough hits to make it worth my while to have blogher ads. Yes, yes, I see the hypocrisy. And I raise you some duplicity. Heh. I don’t really care. I just wanna get paid, bitches! Although, I draw the line at nudity. I wouldn’t put a picture of my boobs on the site, no matter how much you paid me. (Yes, I would, but I would tell you they were somebody else’s.) Nevermind, all of my booby pictures are nursing-related.

Anyway, how have you been? I have been fine. It is hot out now. I am a sweaty, sweaty pig. How are you? Your friend, Abby

Did you ever have a pen pal and did you write like that to her? I did. And that’s how I found out there was no Santa! I’ll share that memory with you now, as I have nothing else to say and Bryan is studying, and I can’t read my book until bedtime because I’ll fall asleep, and the tv remote is far away from me, and I already read the whole internet all up.

My pen pal’s name was Jenny and she lived way up north in Au Gres (that’s pronounced like, “aw, gray!” like if you were opening a pair of wool socks for your birthday and they were gray and you said, “Aw, gray!” or “Aw, gray,” whichever inflection suits you) and our dads worked for the same company and we met at a company picnic and became penpals! It was the best thing ever. After a couple of years, we hatched a delicious plan to find out, once and for all, if there really was a Santa Claus. We both left a note with our cookies that said, “Dear Santa, How are you? I am fine. How many elves do you have?” Well, her Santa said “Too many to count!” and my Santa said, “212.” Dumb Santas. And that’s why I always think my kids are trying to trap me every time they ask me a question.

Oh, here comes a kid now. I’m going to tell her to bring me the remote. You’re so lucky.