In Which I Tell Myself To "Fuck Off" In A Cataclysmic Celebration

Devoted readers will remember that when I sold my debut novel Flex, I set a secret “Fuck You, Ferrett” sales number.  For I am neurotic, and keep raising the bar on myself.
That number was my sanity number. If I sold that many copies of Flex, I could no longer complain about my sales.  It may be a small number – as noted in the same note, I’m not sure what is an impressive sales number for a debut author – but that number was the point at which I would have officially Succeeded Beyond My Expectations.  Whatever happened after that was the point where I could look at my insecurities and say “Fuck you, Ferrett, you never thought you’d get this far.”
And I got the email from Mike Underwood at Angry Robot today:
As of last week, the “Fuck You, Ferrett” number has been surpassed.  Surpassed by 52 copies, in fact.  After this, everything is gravy. (Or frosting. I like frosting on everything better.)
So I’m going to dance around today, and eat a Manwich, and be happy.  Because hey.  I did better than I thought I would.  And that’s pretty fucking amazing.
(Also, The Flux numbers clocked in at around 60% of the first-week numbers for Flex.  I have no idea if that’s good or bad, but I know there is always a sequel drop in sales.  Yet the reviews are stronger – it’s almost like I learned about writing novels between books! – and so I’m very very happy about that, too.)
(Also, I should add, Mike has been a huge proponent of the Flex series partially because he has written his own series based on geeky magic, and if you liked Flex then you should probably check out his Geekomancy series.)
Anyway.  You know what today is?
FUCK YOU, FERRETT.  YOU DID IT.
GO TO HELL, YOU NEUROTIC BASTARD.