You came for a reason. I don’t know why or how or who sent you, but here you are. I’m flattered, really.
The Post is not a ‘try before you buy’ enterprise. Never will it be. Once you’ve swallowed me, snuck me with your eyes and ears, free, like a treat off a Santa’s cookie platter then I’ll be gone forever, vanished and melting, a vapor on the airwaves.
My work is not a commodity. It’s not a consumable. It’s not for the inter-prandial, space age munchies. My words are not free—they are too important to me. How could I expect you to value my work if I value it so lowly myself I give it out for free?
I don’t want you to come here for what you know you want. I want you to come here so I can give you what you never knew you wanted.
Besides, it’s one dollar, a buck, a quid. You cancel anytime. I’ve literally thrown more cash in the /bin. Haven’t I cheapened myself enough already?
Your dollar is worth more to me than it’s value. I hope my work is worth more to you than the dollar value of your subscription—and may it forever be.
So let’s make a deal, subscribe.
I’m worth more than your money. The sales pitch was complimentary.