Those of you who read my blog regularly (well, when I blog with any regularity) know I’m pretty up front about some of the more intimate details of my life and my psyche. I guess it feels like sharing, overcoming, bragging … no, more like sharing, but most of the time I can’t help but feel like ultimately I’m shooting myself in the foot.
Life has shown me that there are people out there who really don’t give a shit about me and sometimes it has even been gracious enough to name names - sometimes in bold and underline. I run into these people and they mention reading my blog and relaying what they read as if they’re doing me a favor for the couple of strained moments that we have to exist in the world together. Usually I’m nice about it, questioning their interest and smiling through wishing for the moment to end right along with them so we can each return to our requisite corners of the world as quickly as possible. Sometimes, I cross the street.
