Ok, here’s a question.  How come Greenfingered guy has got 60 votes, or posts. or whatever, everywhere, and I only have something like 36?  I can’t figure out why this is happening, considering that I always vote my brains out and have never been even offered the opportunity to vote 60 times.  Greenfingered has been only here for a short time, relatively speaking. 

HUMPH.

I’m not TRYING to be weird, and have actually been away living a Normal Life for a few minutes.  But when I came back, I found Greenfingered, and couldn’t even read most of it at first.  Indeed, I have rarely been offered an opportunity to vote on Greenfingered, because it’s always there, thanking me for voting and saying it’s the top ranked post.  I never even voted for it, not having seen it, even.  Is there something wrong with my browser?

This is quite possibly a failing of some kind on my part, but, and so, I would like to be enlightened.  YO!

I too seek an answer to the question of how I cast so many votes.  While I do try to read the other posts in the same categories I post to, I do not believe the number of decisions is accurate.  And for that matter, I must shrug off the voting tallies I then witness.

Do not hate me.  I am only a writer and not a webmaster, an adminstrator, or doing anything but posting and then editing my work - repeatedly.  I pledge I do not vote excessively.  Since my recent re-posting, I have voted only once on, today in fact, on -Green Tea- to be sure. 

While I am confident my work is good, I am not sure it is being received well due to other considerations beyond anything I am doing.  I am back at the point of reasoning that perhaps I should withdraw my work once again.  I can see by your comment you are concerned also.  I am glad to see my reaction is not imaginary.

My Litmocracy screen name is Green Fingered Skinner.
My work appears as (C) Copyright 2007 by Arthur, -the Author.

Ah well, Mr. G.F., I suspect you’re haunted.  Sometimes these things happen.  Computers are all about zeros and ones, after all.
I was trying to click the link from my browser to come here, just now, and I SWEAR I didn’t click the “unsubscribe” one just now, but then I got a message saying I was unsubscribed anyway.  This has happened before.  It’s just the zeros and ones.  We must leave it to our illustrious webmaster, Dave, to sort it out.  I vote, popcorn for all! 
Dave, can we have popcorn?

POPCORN FOR ALL!!!!

Yes, it is my fault.  I am looking into it.  The ugly but important detail is that the code I wrote to ensure that each decision is recorded exactly once (even if it is made several times) isn’t working.  I expect to have it fixed quickly, especially since it’s al just zeroes and ones.  However, there are a lot of them, so I’m not sure how long it will take.

Please keep voting and when I get it sorted out, your vote counts will be correct.

My research indicates that I have solved the problem, but I didn’t clean up the mess the problem made.  I’m cleaning it up now.  Thanks for the heads up guys.  Sorry I’ve been so busy lately.

Thanks for your patience.

Art,

Please let me know if your votes still seem to get out of hand.  I cleaned up the data this morning.

My Votes are still getting out of hand.

Signed,

Art (Gallery)

The last bug I fixed with regard to voting was in the editing - if you edited something you wrote, the auto-votes you get for it would double up.  If that’s not the problem, I’ll assumed you’re being funny, Mrs. Gallery with the male first name, until you provide more detail.

I feel like I’m surrounded.  Hurtful thoughts are flashing while wicked people are rushing about in my mind.  It is 3AM.  …I am trapped like a rat…  I have no fear.  I knew it would come to this one day.  They’ve come to kill me.

Many times I have regretted the things I have written, or said publicly.  I regret the hurt my work has caused my family; the tears; the sad times; the many rejection slips.  I realize now the extent and severity of the collateral pain I have dealt out to those closest to me.  To those who would love me, I admit my debt of gratitude.

Lord knows I never started out to hurt anyone …except maybe my masochistic self.  Ever since my late aunt gave me a typewriter back in Junior High School, all I have ever wanted was to be an author.  All I ever wanted was for people to like me; to accept me; to read me.  In the end, you see… it isn’t easy being a writer.  Oh the tragic pain of it all…

I have come to the conclusion unpublished writers are nothing if not wanton wannabees.  An aspiring author is, in one mind, a creator of good things and worlds; a maker of dreams, and a sufferer of self inflicted delusions.  Most sadly, a writer is but a virtual leaping unknown laboring endlessly in the shadow of a lesser pale. To call oneself a writer these days is like trying to separate your inner being from your outer being ?becoming paradoxically a total useless nothing; an unknown nobody in a world filled with important literary doings and goings on.  I have become one; a writer; a useless unwanted thing among many millions more of the same; just foolish featherheaded fodder; a Gagoots ?that lowest form of communicator a human can ever become. 

I writefiction.  Methinks I had better do something and quick, less those of a more deffused mindset persist their perspicuity. 

I hate when some small town wannabee, some self appointed critic, gets overly analytical and antsy, subtly posturing for a fight.  Oh the inhumanity of it all!  Nonetheless, it is their fault.  They bring it on them selves.  This I know this for sure. 

I have witnessed such a likeness before.  They all try to be heroes; dragon slayers; first responders to any cause when they are in reality only lonely fools living on an island far away.  And loneliness makes some fast fingered commentors morph into biogenetic bloviators; immitation intellectuals; internet whores wanting only to see their names credited on another screen under a paragraph of childlike pap or billious time wasting bullshit.  I too am so afflicted.  What a public shame…

“Attention inside the house.  Arthur ?the author… we are here to change your mind; to redirect your most errant point of view…  Come out with both hands up… and nobody will get hurt!  Look around…You are surrounded!  Come out with your hands up …”

At first, I said nothing.  I mean… what words would you assemble and speak in false reserve to a mob of unruly heathens; a mob of only one.  Cretins all!  Why should I lend them any respect whatsoever ?or feed them anything they could use against me? 

Understandably my skull began to expand like the universe; ready to explode with memories of things to be…  Now I felt the pull of my own words.  Words do have a way of biting back, without warning; especially once hot, now silent, silly forgotten words, written with entirely too little feeling.  Ouch! I feel your pain.

That is when I did it.  I could not help myself.  I could not hold back my temper any longer.  I lyrically replied, “Not on your life, azzhole…  You won’t take me alive!  If you deep thinking reader types want me so badly ?then come inside and get me…” I yelled my anger right back at them.  “Who the hell do they think they are?  I’m an author!

Then, from out of the total silence came this verbal missive; a chilling haunting filled with hard core bravado of two degrees.. 
“I appoint myself your editor?” an unfamiliar voice echoed in the streets, the alleys, and backyards of my sleepy neighborhood. 

“...You are hereby ordered to cease and desist from writing, by my decree.  It is for the best.  Step away from your computer.  Come out with your hands up and nobody gets hurt!  Put both your hands over your head and walk out into the darkness slowly…” she warned me.  “...Come to me and be like me…” Her voice seemed so obviously deceptive -like soft ‘n fluffly white cotton balls covering rusty sharp barbed wire.

“Let go of that red pencil now!” she added authoritively, and certainly I expect she did it solely because she knew she could do it.  After all the kind words on page and in hand; after all our minutes together; now this is how she treats me.  She had taken first blood just then, and still the unmistakable taste lingers on her lips.

“Drop dead…” I replied at the top of my lungs.  “You guys are the killers…  Not me!  Look at you.  You are an editorial death squad sent here to erase and eradicate; to quell my voice; to surpress my soul.  Can you not see what I see?  You are but an errand boy sent by grocery clerks to collect on an unpaid bill.” 

“You can’t stop me now!” I replied.  “Here then, take this…” I said as I let overturned a box filled with reams of freshly printed pages onto their empty heads below.  Then, I let loose an uncontrollable burst from my wild Irish tongue; like James Cagney:

        “If you want me… then you gotta come in here and get me… your dirty, demanding, life sucking readers.”

I wanted to yell back more anger; to cut open my spleen and bleed all over them; to vent my frustrations; to counter their cavalier attitudes; their overpowering self righteousness, but for the first time in my life, ever since I could talk, I had little left to say. 

“Come and get it…” I yelled.  “Come in and get me…” I openly dared them.  “You can not kill the beast within us all.”