…on my posts, I mean.
I hear sad funeral music. The theme from Dr. Zhivago? Lara’s theme? Yes, that one.
Do not stand at my grave and cry: I’m not there, I did not die.
As if that wasn’t creepy enough. I stalk my regular commentators. (In my defence, I think of them as my bestestest friends. You know who I’m talking about.) Like, serious stalking. Like, enough to earn me twelve restraining orders.
I kid you not. I am certifiably insane. Ask anybody.
And the screwed-up WordPress reader isn’t helping. It shows me posts from all these blogs that I followed back just because they followed me first, and not because I devour them, no. Which is terrible, I know. But who’s got time to read stuff they can’t relate to? I know you’re all thinking it, but I’m the only one brave enough to say it out loud.
Also, when people, whose comments I’m used to seeing regularly on my posts, skip this step – I feel like a kid with HAS (High Achievement Syndrome; and no it is not a real thing, I happened to learn about it from a movie*) who has suddenly underperformed, like waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much – and gotten stuck with an F.
Oh, the nightmares, I tell you!
The nightmares are real, y’all. When people won’t comment, all the horrors come to life, like one of Professor McGonagall’s many, many Transfiguration lessons involving inanimate objects. Remember how the huge and highly dead and forever immobile hallway knights had come to life in the seventh book, so they would protect the Castle? I’m digressing from the point. Like I always do. Which is why the regular comment leavers are probably quitting me cold turkey.
Now I know how lost puppies feel, when nobody wants them.
*pleading in a small voice*
Please don’t leave me. I need you. Like the heart needs the beat, and all that.