Good Evening, Bitchfaces...
And hey to you bitches that are rolling your eyes right now...I know.
Across my platforms, I have right at 50K people that I’m addressing on a regular basis. In truth, though, I really have about 50 of y’all that I am interacting with regularly. You know, waving to a Bitchface, like I dunno, blowing me some kisses, whatever.
Interestingly, though, I’ve been into this whole analytics thing. Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Ms. Macon, you hate anything analytical and anything technical, and this is a bastardized child of those fuckers”.
Uh huh, I know. Which is why finally, 8 months later, I know how to pull and read the damned report. Also, that is the exact tally of what I can do, because I’m way too afraid I’m going to fuck shit up if I touch any of the buttons.
Not the point of my evening broadcast, however. I started taking a long look at some of the numbers, some of the folk that regularly open and read my column, sometimes multiple times. And by regularly, I mean damned near every day.
Yet, I look over at the lawn seats *waves well manicured hand out toward the lawn* and I can’t get so much as a nod. Here is my question…
You come every day. Sometimes several times a day. You browse around, you put your fingerprints all over the display cases, you press your damned greasy ass forehead up against the glass…yet, you never wave to me and I’m sitting here in the enclosure, you can’t possibly miss me. You don’t use the park tokens to purchase a handful of grass pellets to slide through the trapdoor. You don’t even point and laugh when I angrily throw myself against the glass.
I won’t lie. It makes me feel kind of fucking weird. Like, basically as I just described.
Since the onset of Ask A Bitchface, it has been an interactive, almost funny with a twist of sarcasm type of experience. Fun for all the boys and girls, if you will. So….why do I have a roaring symphony of crickets, when I can very plainly see you with your face pressed against the damned glass?
Also, get your fucking face off of the glass. I really hate prints on my damned enclosure. It’s called neck muscles, use them, you lazy ass.
Here is something I just thought of: I’m really not that terrible, like in real life. I know that may be hard to believe, actually now that I’ve committed it to writing, that is an absolute lie. Nevermind.
But for those of you out there that I regularly chat with, I try to be supportive, as you’re kind enough to give me some insight into your lives, therefore, it would be rude and heathen like to behave in any other fashion.
I assure you, I will do my absolute best to not be the smiteful Bitchface who has lopped off heads in the not so distant past. I mean, definitely no promises, but I will give it the old college try, at minimum.
So, drop by, throw some grass pellets, stare at me while I try to figure out the schematics of the enclosure, and drop a Bitchface a hi, bye, or a kiss my ass. Although, I wouldn’t try that last one. Trust me on that.
*approaches cautiously with an apple on the flat of my hand*
Long time lurker, first time commenter.
I'm really more of the type to keep to myself while admiring from afar. I'm skittish and unlikely to interact. I don't really have much to say, I just like your writing.