A few weeks back I ran a promo for my first book, Memoirs of a Gas Station. It worked and I sold a bunch of copies, which naturally made me feel happy. I got a good ranking on Amazon and the sales have continued in a more limited fashion. Some new reviews started to flow in, including the adorable one-star blastings from the buttoned-up folks that are appalled by my habit of consistently finding myself drunk in the wilderness. (These have become somewhat of a mainstay). Whatever.
That was all cool. And then this morning, I saw this.
Yes, Bill O’Reilly is #1, but that’s not what I’m pointing out. Scroll down. Nope, keep going. Keep going. A little more. There. That’s me down there at #23. On the New York Times Bestseller List. Is this real life?
This just made my day, and I wanted to share it on my blog because I thought it was cool. That’s all. Time to start wearing wireframe glasses and going by my first initial, I suppose.
As Jesse Pinkman would say, New York Times, bitch.