I have 895 published posts. If this makes it through final editing, and very few do these days, I'll be a tiny step closer to a thousand.
I don't really think that means anything at all. It doesn't make my recent output less than suck, and it doesn't seem to have made anyone fall in love with me and want to take me away from all this.
What does it do? I can't say. It makes me feel like I can sometimes spit out something readable that isn't too cryptic or enigmatic. I can sometimes write things that make me smile when I reread them as opposed to the usual cringing and eye rolling I tend to do when faced with something I've produced.
It's late. The extra kid in the house is asleep on the sofa. I'll tell you her story one day, the family values that seem to have put her in a place better than her mother was/is able to provide, the stability she's been given, the love that surrounds her. But that's not for now.
It's late, and Momma is somewhere between work and here. I've got at least one more beer and a cigarette in my near future.
That wasn't even an update. You should feel cheated as a blog reader.