A life more free and hello hidden follower.

I picked up a new follower a few weeks ago and I went over and gave his blog "a lick and a promise" of a proper read and a thank you comment. I tried to get to that this morning but he's no longer among my followers. In case you ever come back forgive my poor internet graces and thanks for reading, your subject matter was very interesting despite being a teeensy bit challenging to read.

On my followers page I noticed something else peculiar - it shows only four even though it says "5 followers". I'm somewhat challenged by (lazy about) the technicalities of blogging but I'm guessing I have a hidden follower? I'm not sure what to make of that - aside from it's tantamount to lurking in the bushes outside my house - but that's ok too, so long as you continue to worship from afar and never try to take me home to meet your parents and see your shrine - at least not without tricking me into it by pretending to be normal first, because if you're going to shock me I'd prefer you be gentle about it. But what I really mean to say is thanks for reading and leave a comment sometime so I can visit your blog and secretly follow you in a somewhat odd and internet stalkeristic way. Unless you're the one person I never want to find my blog in which case I already know you're crazy so go away, you're being creepy.

Ohh, and also you're a clever cookie aren't you? None of my other followers have so far managed to get an entire post dedicated to them, but don't get too swoleheaded because it might have more to do with me having nothing to post about than you very cleverly drawing me into millions of suppositions with your mysteriousness. Damn it hidden follower, you're clever. I'm going to go look for scarcely updated blogs and secretly start following them too.

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For the other part of my post; this week I have amassed a collection of fruit peel and other organic kitchen scrap that I can't bring myself to commit to a thousand years of slow decay in garbage mountain. Of course I have to, I have no acre of yard to throw it out to, cows to feed it to, or garden for which to compost it, all of which is what I've been accustomed to. I was reflecting on the contrast between living here and how much more free my rural life was so I was going to write about barefoot summers spent climbing trees and littering the yard with fruit peels and other such careless freedoms I enjoyed at my grandparents house. But I spent all my brain power writing about my secret follower and now I can't be bothered. See what kinds of havoc secretly following wreaks?