I created this blog to become famous.
I have been blogging for a year and a half.
I’m like Zach Stone. Well, not entirely. I’m not famous, but I’m not canceled. Meaning I have not eighty-sixed my aspiration. I have instead taken to WordPress to ask for some advice.
- Should I create a Facebook page for my blog?
I have analyzed the layout of several different blogs. Some have chosen to adopt the sociality offered by a Blog Facebook page. Others have crossed the desert plain and pick up their viewers mano a mano. I’ve done a mixture of both. I post my blogs on my personal Facebook and I frequent other blogs to spread the Good Will-you come and check out my blog. That way, it is the, “I scratch your back, you give me a foot massage,” ordeal. So far I have come across very few foot massagers. I tell them to not mind the calluses on the heel; that it adds character, but to no avail. I suppose I am curious as to how illustriously a Blog Facebook page contributes to the traffic of a blog?
- Does Stumbleupon draw a crowd?
This is not a new tactic for me. I have posted my blogs on Stumbleupon to help speed the traffic of my blog. Last year, it worked well. In every circumstance, I was gaining fifteen to twenty more views from Stumbleupon. I think they are on to my self-promotion though. Since 2013, I have probably had anywhere from fifteen to twenty views from Stumbleupon altogether. I know these Stumbleupon views do not bestow a consistent fan base, but they look oh-so-pretty on the bar chart. Just ask the ladies, or men. Do they want a 10-15 view length bar? Or do they way a 100-200 view length bar? Cosmetics are important in the world of blogging. I am curious as to what other people’s strategy is for approaching Stumbleupon. Have you found it worth your while or has it wiled away your worth?
- Should I change my blog name?
The name Titillating Thoughts has done me well during my blogging lifespan, but perhaps it’s time to give it a stronger pulse. I want my blogs pulse to relate to, “I’m overweight and I just ran twenty minutes, I may die right now.” That’s a powerful, erratic pulse. The methods in which to achieve this would be to come up an easily searchable, catchy name that relates to my posts. My honest thoughts on this are:
- Hilarity Ensues OR The Ensuing Hilarity OR Am I Funny Yet?
- The Funny Pseudologist OR A Silly Pseudologist OR The Honest Pseudologist
- The Face of Facetious OR The Face in Facetious
Those are some of my top contenders at this point in time. I am unsure if it is possible to keep this blog, but change the name, but if so, those are some possibilities. What say you?
- Is buying a domain name worth it?
Is it…Is it really?
On Friday, I received some exciting news.
I have been offered a teaching position at a high school.
After believing that I would be dining in the soup kitchen, and working on my 300 line, “Tonight, we dine in Hell,” I will no longer need such devices. It is a fantastical sensation. To put down my hedge trimmers and no longer need to lock down my landscape position in front of Home Depot. It is a relief. Plus, I was not corralling the highest amount of praise for my Sonic the Hedgehog lawn design. I guess interest in Sonic died with Sega. I’d mow a Mario, but it is not in my drawing repertoire, in fact nothing else is. That, and it would most likely end in a racial depiction of an Italian with a crooked moustache. Nobody wants that.
By becoming a teacher, I receive a contract. It is a one year contract that dictates what I will be required to do. Teach, obviously.
I am treating it like I am an unrestricted free agent. People do not just happen across a gem like me, alright? The Alexandrite. Game time was fast approaching, and they realized they had a gap to fill in the roster. Enter me. I go in and sign this contract today. I have it all thought out. I’m taking my agent with me to negotiate a good deal.
Hint: I am the agent.
Hint #2: I’ll be accepting the first number they throw at me.
Also, like any good free agent, before I sign, I want to be courted too. I want to feel the love. In the teaching world, courted equates to someone holding the door open for you once. Secondly, I want a signing bonus. And by a signing bonus, I mean high fives throughout the office. Are low fives back in? Hugs, maybe? I’ll choose my targets wisely. Ladies…
In truth, I am excited. This is a great opportunity for me to begin the career of my choice. The past five years have come to fruition and I am now a full-pledged teacher.
Oorah! Or whatever the Marine equivalent is for teaching? Apple!…?
I’ve been in pain the past couple days. It started on Tuesday. I was eating tater-tots. I do not care if you are four or eighty-three; tater tots are magnificent. They are like the french fries east coast cousin who is too hood for fast food. Anyway, I had just excavated a handful from the pan of sizzles upon which they rested. I took one of the golden brown potato marshmallows and tossed it back. Figurative tears began to stroll down my cheeks. (Us real men are not criers; we’re BAWLERS. Oh…wrong type of ballin’.) They were tater-HOTs. I refrained from burning the roof of my mouth by quickly gulping it down my throat. There was no spitting it out; I was already committed to the feud. Upon me doing so, the burning sensation followed. It felt like Courtney Love was parading around my esophagus, it was a HOT mess. When the tater tot finally settled in the pit of my stomach, I knew irrefutable damage had been done. Unlike a rough whiskey, I had literally burned my throat. Hence the title: Third-Degree Thursday.
If I was a prostitute, my oral presentation would be shot shot shot shot shot shot; everybody! It hurts to swallow, and I may have blistered the lining. This is a newfound phenomena for me, but it will not be forgotten. Well, that is until the pain goes away.
Is that not curious? We have all eaten something well before it has reached an edible temperature. Some of us may have taken a bite, achieved that conclusion, and continued to engulf the food. We have all suffered the mouth burns, maybe some of us with lip burns, but that’s unrelated. The fact of the matter is, we are creatures of habit. A hot cookie is a tasty cookie. I’m not waiting for it to harden like my heart. Bagel bites need to be eaten straight out of the microwave. I do not have five spare minutes to blow on them like a chump. That’s why I am using the microwave. (Note: That’s not really why I am using the microwave. I am just a horrible cook, and processed bagel bites in the microwave is the salient option.)
I guess what I am really advocating is for people to stay away from burning sensations. Wear a condom.
That’s all wrong.
Stay away from hot food, keep it above the throat. Otherwise your esophagus will say esofuckthis.
Last night I was in one of those craving-the-unknown phases. The type that makes me search my cupboards frantically. Opening cupboards four or five times, hoping that it has Indian in the Cupboard-like qualities. I gazed upon the shelves contents. A partially opened saltine cracker package (but if I am going to eat saltines, I’m going to want some soup. Gawd, my workload just increased!), a half eaten bag of licorice (that I am not desperate enough to eat), a box of corn muffin mix (I buy this stuff because I love me some corn muffins, but I NEVER use it), and two cans of tuna. I closed the cupboard, paced around the kitchen for five minutes. I looked in the fridge eying the milk and the big bag of cherries (There is a poor joke to be made here, but I’m not going to POP one off). I shut the fridge and opened the freezer. Sometimes I produce a little beat when I open the fridge and freezer doors. Opening and closing; opening and closing. Breaking out in song. “I can’t stop this feeling! Deep inside of me. Girl, you just don’t realize that I’m hungry!” It was one cool beat, but that could have just been the fridge and freezer. After, I begrudgingly dragged myself back over to my cupboard. Nothing new, but at this point anxiety sinks in. I grabbed a piece of old licorice, knowing good and well that it was going to take me an hour to chew. (Is it just me, or is rope licorice significantly better than the straw type? They use to sell bags of that stuff, now you have to buy the family pack and it comes with the Darth Vader black licorice. And if you like black licorice, you have no soul or no taste buds. One of the two. A ginger? Maybe both.) As I stand their tugging on the licorice like I am a dog trying to tear apart a rope, I come to terms with the fact that my cupboard is not magical, nor do I possess any oogaly-koboogaly powers. (And yes, that is a word in the Webster Dictonary. It means: “Shut fuck up…please.” Niceties always help.)
This hunger proves to be hazardous to one’s health. I cannot go out to the store because I lack the insight into what I want to chew on. And it is a known precaution that those who have munchinitus should not go shopping because you will end up with twelve loaves of every variation of bread, and one package of Mr. Mayer. While bologna may be on a friendly first name basis with many, I prefer to keep my relationship professional. Let me remind you that this is not munchinitus that is onset by a secret blend of herbs and spices. That particular type of hunger is easily solved by the first edible source you see. No, in this case, those twelve loaves of bread are bought because who knows which one will curb that hunger, scratch that itch, or park that car.
I’m getting off topic. I did not go to the store. Instead I paced around for another fifteen minutes, making the rounds, singing, doing random finger pointing guns at cups and eating utensils, silently complaining. There is no need for verbal complaints in the presence of inanimate objects. Unless you are Dor from Xanth, in which case, AMAZING. I’d finally be able to determine if certain people were truly dumb as a rock, or if was doing a disservice to the rock, and people are in fact dumber. BUT, there was no inanimate whisperer. I had to make do with what was present.
I had a can of tuna.
Oh, you expected a riveting resolution? Let me try again. Only because I am eager to please.
I had a can of tuna AND then I was abducted by aliens.
I sit. And by sit, I mean lay down on my bed. I always do my best work in bed. I begin preparing myself for the writing task ahead of me. What will be the focus of my post? What topic will I hack the normalcy out of?
And that is where it stops.
I’ve realized something important about myself from my writing methodology. I am a wannabe loner. And by this I mean I want to establish an idea and catechize it alone, but I do not. My process is a little different.
Here is how it works: I prod the kitchen of my mind and find the correct ingredients to prepare my idea. This is difficult to do. Imagine being in a five star restaurant’s kitchen. Imagine all those rare succulent delicacies and piquant seasonings. The all too ample amount of the finest cookery spread throughout the islands, counters, and cupboards. Just imagine. Now times that by forty-two; the answer to life, universe, and everything; and you have the innards of my minds kitchen. May I remind you, this is just the kitchen. Once the required ingredients are obtained, I make dough. Yes, flour and water. When the mixture has accumulated into a solid mass, I make magic happen. I take that dough, the essence of my idea, and I do what any decent chef would do; I slap it. I slappa da dough! This is the most climacteric step in the entire ordeal.
This is where it goes from solo to a show yo.
In Mighty Morphin Power Ranger terms, this is where my Tyrannosaurus Dinozord joins forces and becomes the Megazord.
Or, in my kitchen analogy, it’s where I slap people in the face with floury dough. A much kneaded process. Hitting people with my idea both literally and figuratively allows my mind to churn. There feedback, albeit often irrelevant to the direction I take, aids me in flushing out that wondrous dough into a pizza masterpiece. Once this is done, I slather on the tomato sauce (glue of my story), overload it with cheese (the jokes), and sprinkle on some pepperonis (no symbolism, I just like pepperonis). And viola! A bost is porn.
While this blog is comprised of 93% of my own ideas, that 7% of others insight is a tremendous boost in making what is great, brilliant. I am not completely alone in my process. I can’t be. Hence, I am just a wannabe loner.
Writing is a tool of expression. I can write whatever comes to mind and it is easy. That is how I use to approach poems. That is the way of the past. For me, writing a poem is difficult. I want the structure and elegance that I see portrayed in the various poems I read, and yet, it takes more from me to achieve that then it does with writing. A blog may take an hour to write and edit. With a poem I continuously debate its progression. The final production could come a week or two later.
So, I tested myself. I placed ten minutes on the clock and challenged myself to write a poem. I had no subject matter in mind. Whatever happened happened. Here is the result:
To me poems are like the blues. They are meant to be demonstrations of anguish. It is easier to express pain and agony in a poem. Blissful poems are difficult for me to write for this reason. So judge as you may, think what you will, and do what you do. This is my ten minute poem.