Purple toes

I don’t have very many followers on Twitter, so when I get an email notification that someone wants to follow me, I get excited … really, REALLY excited. Like, omg-someone thinks I’m interesting-what-should-I-tweet-now-to-impress-them? excited.

But sadly, that’s rarely been the case.

Because the only people who want to hang on to my every word and be loyal CP followers (that’s what I like to call myself … as of RIGHT NOW) are marketing accounts for products I’ve never heard of because I may or may not at one time tweeted that I like stilettos and salt and vinegar chips (not in the same tweet). I hate that people have access to monitor my tweets (which are protected, by the way) and looking for keywords in my posts that make them think I'll be interested in their product. I’ve gotten follow requests from make-up companies based in Korea, creepy looking people named HotTravis55, media companies in countries I’m not even sure really exsist – you name it, they’re asking. And every day that legitimately awesome people like Kelly Clarkson don’t request to be my Twiend, I die a little on the inside.

Adding insult to injury, today I got the absolute most insulting follow request ever. I received an email notification saying, “Esmeralda wants to follow you on Twitter!” I thought, Ooo, Esmeralda! Sounds so mysterious, I wonder if she’s an artist. Wait, it’s probably porn. Please say it’s not porn.

It wasn’t porn.

It was a twitter account that offeres remedies for …


It figures. The only people that want to be my twitter BFFs are skin affliction specialists. That’s ripping a bandage off an old wound.

Speaking of gross …

I have purple toenails and no, it’s not nail polish. Well, it was nail polish, but I took it off last night and saw that my right toe nail is about three different shades of violet with a few swirls of green mixed in for good measure. Blasted running.

So maybe people like Esmeralda should be following me.

Speaking of gross AGAIN …

When Clayton tucked me into bed last night, I was feeling especially talkative and wanted to share every intimate detail of my day with him. I told him that I took a nap and woke up mid-slumber with a kiddie pool of drool streaming out of my mouth and onto my pillow. I then casually mentioned that I couldn’t remember which pillow I had been using, and that I was very sorry in advance. “Hope you don’t mind someone else’s spit in your mouth,” I said, diving under the covers and assuming the please-rub-my-back position. His response?

“That’s okay. I don’t mind spit if I’m expecting it.”

My response: “Please list for me all of the instances where you would be expecting spit in your mouth, and all of the reasons why you’d be okay with it.”