And here I thought she was one of thoseeat anythingpeople.
Note to self: stick to carrot and celery sticks.
Affectionately yours,
The UnAffectionate Blogger
God, this woman (or man) is batshit crazy.
I don’t really know, but the writing definitely feels feminine. Although, I can’t say for certain, but I’ll go with aher.
A while back, I googled top internet blogs, andThe UnAffectionate Bloggercame up in my search. I couldn’t help but look through older posts and marvel at the content, not to mention the obvious wit and stats. I admit, I do take a look from time to time. Okay, I’m sort of hooked.
Christ, the freaking stats are through the roof for this blog. All you have to do is see the Alexa rank or google any number of subjects, and this damn blog is always on page one of Google results. Today, I googled healthy outdoor snacks andboom, there’s the UAB.
Do me a favor. Make sure you’re sitting down if you take a look at the visitor counter on her page. My tongue practically rolls out of my mouth, and I have good stats. She must be some sort of insider, or a lonely woman who lives alone with her cats. Who the hell else has all this time to scour the internet?
Okay, I may be a little jealous. My blog started out as a joke, but it’s become a labor of love for me.
Hey, even a bachelor gets bored and wants something to call all his own.
Yeah, I guess the powers-to-be at work would rather me find a family to call my own, but I don’t even have a steady woman. I date, but no one special. Sometimes, I find those ladies only want a feature in my blog, which may be a reason to make it anonymous. But how can I date someone and not tell them about my hobby?
Hobby? Hell, it’s practically a second full-time job.
I close my laptop and decide to go for a run. It’s unseasonably warm for the end of October, and I tell myself not to waste any more time on the UnAffectionate Blogger. Instead, I change into shorts and a long-sleeved tee, slip my feet into my running shoes, grab my earbuds and phone, and hit the pavement.
It’s quiet on campus. Only a small number of students are still roaming the quad, and I’m glad I ran in that direction. It’s really a peaceful place when deserted.
I wind my way through a parking lot and into the park.
I still can’t digest this city, with several major universities, a medical center, and a bustling downtown, all divided by Schenley Park and Golf Course. It’s such a far cry from the farm I grew up on in central Pennsylvania. It’s not even close to where I went to school in Happy Valley, but it’s grown on me. The hilly terrain helps me stay in shape, and I like the way I can find open air in the middle of all the congestion.
I loop through the park and head back home through campus, noticing the purple sky and downtown skyline on my way back. I like Pittsburgh, and I make a silent plea with the powers that be to grant me tenure. They’ve suggested I recreate the blog under a pseudonym, or at least attempt to take myself out of my current blog, which is also why I’ve been studying up on anonymous bloggers.
For some reason, the administration of the college that employs me doesn’t want Professor Fellows to be a shirtless blogger in his spare time. They say it’s because of the students, but I don’t give a shit. I teach second-level statistics. Those “kids” are at least nineteen or twenty years old. They can vote and get married, and that’s plenty old enough to handle shirtless content on the internet.
As for me, I don’t like the thought of going anonymous in my blogging. It feels disingenuous, and I’m not prepared to change it yet.
I’m a stats guy; I deal in the real and tangible. I need to understand more, not the unknown, like the UnAffectionate Blogger.
Except later, I find myself reading more of her/his posts after I shower, grill some fish, and crack open a beer, secretly hoping it’s a her and her anonymity doesn’t last forever.
She’s witty, and I fucking like it.
Ignoring the constant pinging on my laptop, signaling new comments, and the buzzing of tweets on my phone, I serve Gabby and Lizzie pizza and steamed broccoli before they change into their costumes. I stop for a quick whiff under my arms, making sure my deodorant is staying true to its all-day-power claim. It sort of is—I think—considering I took my run and didn’t shower before dinner.
“Mom, what’re you doing?” Gabby says, interrupting my personal-hygiene check. “Can we dip our broccoli in ketchup?”
“Nope, no way, never. That’s gross, and it’s slathering your good vegetables in corn syrup.”
See? I’m a good mom.
“Eat your veggies, so you can eat lots and lots and lots of candy.” I spread my arms wide, showcasing how much candy they can eat.
Sort of.
“Girls, I’m going to run to the bathroom, and when I get back, we’ll clear your plates and get ready to go.”
