One of my wife's friends told me yesterday that she reads this blog daily and feels like she has an oddly intimate relationship with me as a result.
Then she said that there have been times when she has told my wife that she loved something I wrote on my blog, only to discover that Elysha never read it.
Elysha acknowledged this to be true.
Fear not, dear reader. Only a tiny part of me died at that moment. There's still plenty left of me for her to kill.
Later, while playing poker with friends and strangers, a guy sitting across the table (who I had just met) turned to my friend, pointed and me, and began whispering.
"What?" I asked, irritated. "What did I do?"
After a moment, he turned back to me, smiling, and said, "You're the Matthew Dicks? The writer? You wrote Something Missing? And the yellow book, too?"
"Yes," I said. "That's me."
It was a nice moment for me. It doesn't happen often.
A moment later, a friend at the other end of the table chimed in:
"My kids actually read his books. I mean... I don't read them, but my kids do!"
Lesson of the day:
The closer you are to me, the less likely you are to care about anything I have to say.
And I'm not going to lie. It hurts a little.
I may have to write mean things about my closest friends that they will never read.