I don't care about your blog. If you feel the need to write down every inane thought that passes through your head, (albeit very attractive head) go write ahead. Scribble your thoughts about television, politics, sports and whatever in your little journals. Post them online, if you want. But I don't need a text, email, #tweet, or #facebook notification everytime you do. You're seriously just not that interesting. Oh, and no one cares if you named your kid #Jedi.
I don't want to play #CandyCrush, or slots, or #Farmville, or poker, or #FamilyFeud, or whatever the new game it is you want me to play. I will never play. I'll just politely ignore the invite, until eventually you've invited me to play so many times that I block the entire program. By which point you've already stopped playing and will soon be inviting me to play some other idiotic game. When that happens, again, I'm just going to block you.
I don't care about your new #kickstarter company. I'm not giving you my money for your crappy jewelry, or your new invention, or your online store. My #Google isn't broken, it works just fine. If I need something, or want to donate to a cause, I know how to do it. Unless it's a fund to deport #JustinBieber. I can throw in a few bucks for that.
Speaking of causes, I don't care about yours. I don't want to walk for anything. I don't want to occupy anything. I don't want a portion of the proceeds to go anywhere. And I definitely don't want to give you a dollar for every mile you run, or push-up you can do. I get it. You're a hippie. I'm not. Let's get past this. Unless I end up with #GirlScoutCookies. I care about Girl Scout Cookies.
I don't care about your band. I'm 32 years old. I don't want to sign up for you newsletter. I don't want any of your 'merch'. I'm not signing a poll or petition to get you on some radio station. And unless you've got free beer, I'm not coming to your show. Again, I'm 32. I don't do that for artists I REALLY REALLY like, so why would I do it for you?
I don't care about your damn kid. I don't care if your kid has a football game, or dance recital, or if he/she tried to ride the dog like a very little pony. So you can imagine how I feel about the 119 pictures you just posted on Facebook. I've got my own kid. His middle name is Jedi, and he's way better looking than your little messes. And I don't care if you don't care that his middle name is Jedi.
I read the #HuffingtonPost online all the time. Sometimes I find the articles entertaining or educational. But I don't care about what you read. Unless you know me very well, stop bothering me with videos of people dancing on subways, or planking in #TimeSquare. If you really think it'd interest me, email it to me. But just know that if the subject line has 'fwd' in it, I'll delete it without opening, promptly empty my trash bin, and then not know what you're talking about when we next talk.
I REALLY do not care what you promote for a living. I'm not buying real estate from you. I'm not going to the bar where you work for the Tuesday afternoon "3 Dollar Boilermaker Special!!!". I'm not going to become a regular at such-and-such restaurant because you're their Event Planner/Promotions manager. I'm not going to a nightclub Friday night because you're the beer tub girl. I'm just not going to do it.
I'm not going to become a Tennessee Lady's Volunteers basketball fan. I'm sure the fan base is great, and the atmosphere is phenomenal. I'm sure they're very nice people. I just don't care about Tennessee, or Lady basketball. (They can't even dunk.)
Wow, that felt good. It was a long week, and in case you can't tell, I'm a little crabby. Sometimes I don't realize I'm crabby until the moment I stop feeling crabby. Also, making others share in my crabbiness takes the edge off of my own. If you managed to read all the way to the end of this rant, thank you. Thanks for caring enough to read about what I don't care about even though you really don't care yourself. See you next time.
Holy crap, I just realized I just wasted my 50th blog post. Eh, I don't care.
"I don't hate anyone. I'm not a hate monger. More of a, hate stylist." --Tom Hanks in Punchline
"Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?" --Chevy Chase in Christmas Vacation