Dear Evil Discussor... How many readers do you think you have?

You might call them readers, anon. But I call them friends. Lovers. Fellow dreamers. And also, Douchefaces. Sometimes, I like to call them Superstars. My little superstars. I also fancy calling them Sailors sometimes if you must know. And I, Captain Blogheart, most swash-bucklingest seafarer on all of the seas. So dapper in my captain's hat and navy blue blazer and handlebar moustache. And I pretend we're all on a ship together heading straight t'wards a terrifying summer's squall that's sure to wrench this little wooden blogging boat apart and throw us all overboard into a roiling churning freezing sea of sharks and waves and certain death and doom! And we hold eachother. Close. Really, really close. So close that I can feel your ribs. And you, my, um, rib, as well. Yes. That's my rib. My extra rib. My very lower rib. Yes, I know ribs aren't supposed to be there. But it was a birth defect. And so, I have an additional rib that grows sometimes just beneath my pantwaist. And, its been a struggle, it hasn't been easy, and its taken a lot of getting used to, and please, you're starting to make me uncomfortable with all of these questions, just trust me, its a rib.











Anyways, enough about that. It's just something I like to do sometimes. But, yeah, I don't know. 5 readers? 15? 50? 505? Its hard to say. You know what? It's even quite possible that its a number that doesn't involve a five. Like, say 17. Or 48. But who can really tell? Alls I know is I love each and every one of them from the very deepest darkest bottomest of my Evil heart. And I only hope I can touch them in the profound way that they have touched me. And also maybe in a different way. Say, between the knees. In the case of the ladies, that is. But that's a different story for a different time, for a different post. Perhaps on an entirely different blog. Perhaps maybe even not written by me. Possibly a blog entitled Between the Knees. Possibly not. One never knows. I don't know everything after all, dammit. Only most things.

Yours,
E.D.