There are 6,775,446,338 in the world; I only know a handful of them. Of that handful, only a few like me. Most of those few are related to me, so they are obliged to like me.
They don’t count.
I avoid social networking sites because it is somewhat embarrassing to show the world just how unlikable you are. The majority of the requests I get to follow me on Twitter are from porn stars. Secretly I think that is kind of awesome, but it is not really a glowing endorsement of my superior people skills. My Facebook page is like the Gobi (In this case the Tobi) Desert, barren. The friend request I received from my Rat-Faced Brother yesterday said: “Mom says I have to be your friend.”
I am always a little surprised when someone says they like me. “Who me? No, you must have me confused with someone else. Someone nice!” I even had to turn off the comments around here because I could not handle reading such nice things. Not because I don’t love me some nice comments, because I do. Truly, I do. But, because I do not have enough practice at nice to reciprocate. I have Comment Anxiety Disorder.
When I saw this today, from she, who is quite possibly one of the nicest people on the planet, Holy Santa, Oprah, Hare Krishna, I did not know what to say! I still do not know what to say.
Other than --
And buy the shoes L.
You totally need to buy the shoes!