“I want to do a guest post on your blog,” Tata announced last Saturday.
My immediate response? Panic. Sheer, unadulterated panic. It’s the same stomach-just-dropped-to-the-floor feeling I get whenever I get an email from Facebook saying she has tagged me in a photo. Why such panic? Because of all of my friends, she is the one with the most opinions, the least amount of filters, and the one most likely to snap a photo of me doing something stupid. (This happens way more than you’d think.)
Anything could, and has, come out of her mouth. And that? Scares me.
“Why? What do you want to say that you need an entire post?” I asked her.
She looked a little shifty before answering me. “I think the general public would get a kick out of our conversation last week. I know I thoroughly enjoyed it.”
Okay, now I’m confused. I don’t remember having a conversation with T last week. Like, at all. I must have looked puzzled because she elaborated.
“The conversation via text about our Lists …” she said.
Oh, yes. Now I remember. “Oh. Hell. No,” I said. “No guest post for you. That conversation was wildly inappropriate for the masses.”
She gave me a grin that did nothing to alleviate my fears. “But I took screen shots of the whole conversation. It would mostly be a post of our texting conversation. What’s the big deal? It’s totally rated PG-13.”
What’s the big deal? What’s the big deal? Giving control of a blog post over to someone who always, always write “for sexual favors rendered” in the memo line of every check she’s ever written me over the last twenty years?
Write a guest post? No. Way.
“Oh, come on,” she said, “you can have final editing control. If there’s something you don’t like, just delete it.”
Homegirl has a point. Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll allow Miss Sexual Favors Rendered to write a guest post, which is concrete proof that I’ve completely lost my mind. Look for it in the coming weeks. (The post, not my mind. That’s, like, way gone.)