I Know Your Dirty Little Secret

Ever had a Peeping Tom?

I married one. Literally. His name is Tom.

Now I have a whole slew of them. Maybe not so literally...

I don't know your name. I don't know your game. You must like what you see because you're coming back to see more. So, I leave the curtains open, blinds up and continue to put on this little show/blog. I can't see your faces but you leave your footprints outside my window and my "analytics program" tracks you down all the way to which window you peeked in last. I'm not the only one being watched, ya know.

I love the anonymity of the internet. I love the multipurposefulness (Not a word. I know. Shut up.) of the world wide web. We all have our dirty little secrets. (Midget porn) I get it. But I cannot help wondering who's out there, reading me. Uh oh, watch out Dani, curiosity killed the cat. Um hmm, know that too. Not worried. This pussycat has only lived six lives thus far and I have found that each and every incarnation brings a more evolved feline outta me. Meow. Anyone have any catnip? Purrr...

I write. You read. I know you do. Remember, I can see you. Sorta. It's like being on stage and being blinded by the spot light and unable to see my audience. Been there, done that. The difference is when the blog song ends there isn't any applause. Been there, done that too. Check it out, you don't have to clap, unless you really want to. But how about throwing a couple of dollars? I mean, how about leaving a comment? Yeah, that's what I meant.

Us writers can be a sensitive bunch and the emotional risk of putting our words out there can be likened to stripping down to pasties and panties. Actually, I think that's easier. Go figure. I suppose it's all about confidence in ability but that's another topic for another time.

Come on kids. Knick knack, paddy whack throw this kitty cat a bone. Leave a comment. I double-dog-dare you to.