Look. I know it. I KNOW IT. It’s annoying to complain about Tumblarity. Still. Still-still. You get a good four hours and that’s it.
The cool kids never cared but noticed and stirred uncomfortably, watching the number see-saw like a pair of fat kids helping a skinny kid get mad air on a trampoline. The even-cooler kids—none of whom follow my dipshit tumblr, and who cares—never even acknowledged its existence, floating high above the rest of us like magical dishwashers in the sky that never leave a dish the slightest bit dirty after even their shortest of (water-saving) cycles.
But it’s killing me. I don’t mean literally, the hot dogs are doing that just fine, but I’m saying that I liked Tumblr precisely because there were so few metrics by which I could measure my self-worth. On twitter I can’t make a serious post about anything because three or four butt-breathers will complain that I’m not being funny and unfollow me, and for some monkey-huffing reason I actually care about my follower counts, though recently I turned off the new-follower email and it’s helping me sleep better at night. (The ambien™ helps a little there but mostly it just makes me a sleep-jerk who says mean things in the middle of the night, like “SHUT UP I AM NOT SNORING YOU SUCK GO FUCK YOURSELF.”)
So, Tumblarity. It goes down for no reason that I can discern, almost making an audible BLOOBLOOBLOObloobloobloo noise as it does so. And then I plead with it, “No, Tumblarity, I can be tumblarious, I’m totally tumblarious, come back what did I DOOOOOO”
But it never does any good. Never any good. If I worked for Tumblr, Inc I would make Tumblarity. I would make a fitness function for tumblr blogs because it makes perfect sense. Why wouldn’t they have this score? I just want to pretend it doesn’t exist. Actually what I want is to pretend that Oprah is right and that I can wishful-think my way to a higher tumblarity or a better credit score or a larger diddler, which works about as well as praying for Oprah to not be full of very expensive and very organic shit. Sorry Oprah. You know I love you, girl, or at least you should keep thinking that because eventually it’ll be true, right? I’m shrugging so hard my shoulders exploded.
