Something interesting happened last week as I was leaving church. (Yes, I go to church– I have the Snapchats to prove it.) I’d just completed my weekly tradition of bursting out their ornate doors and pretending to be Aragorn in that LOTR scene where you find out he’s not dead. I was high on the triumph of my slow motion moves as our hipster pastor walked up with a smile. I reached out to shake his hand, my mind already dreaming of the brunch we were about to enjoy, when he opened his mouth and spoke.
“Hey, so you’re like a famous blogger, huh?”
I’m sure he was being facetious, but the world stopped. My jaw dropped.
He was taken aback, obviously thrown off by my reaction.
“Oh, is it some sort of secret or something?”
“No, I uhh—“
I looked at The Boyfran whose face was as WTF THE WORLD IS OVER as mine.
“That’s you though, right? Don’t you have a blog?”
I nodded my head like I was testifying in court again and unwilling to fully admit to the truth of the accusation. He went on to explain how one of his friends had shared a post on Facebook and he’d started reading it before recognizing my face on the sidebar.
“I mean, I thought it was great…”
His voice trailed off as I mumbled a thank you and fled the scene, no longer feeling like Aragorn.
Is My Blog A Secret?
I never really bothered to tell most of the people in my life that I have a blog. Even though I enjoy meticulously documenting my every awkward move on the interwebs, I’m somewhat notorious for playing my cards close to my chest. My family knows I write, my coworkers know I went to BlogHer, but that’s about it. Who knows when that will change.
Last month I got a notification that my old boss from AT&T had followed me on a social media site. I shrieked and dropped the phone like it’d turned into the weird growth in the back of my fridge that used to be a spaghetti squash. I have no idea how she found me, but if this stuff keeps happening then I should probably go ahead and formulate some sort of statement.
Dear People I Know IRL,
I can see how this could be upsetting, but don’t worry—I’ve taken precautions to respect your privacy.
To My Family:
Don’t be mad I didn’t tell you I had a blog, I couldn’t even get you to read the emails I sent while I was living in China, having to walk two miles to get wifi at Starbucks. I even used catchy subjects like “READ AND RESPOND OR YOU WILL DIE IN A FIERY CRASH,” but it didn’t work. You even told me you wouldn’t read a book I wrote unless I bought it for you as a gift.
But don’t worry– your secrets are safe with me. I haven’t told anyone about that time you got so angry at our parents that you started crying and pulled your pants down before falling on the stairs. I definitely didn’t mention that you were 15 when this happened.
I also didn’t talk about how you had a nervous breakdown after having your wisdom teeth removed. No one knows that you sat on the bathroom floor with an Easter basket, letting mashed potatoes stream down your face as you made a wedding ring out of a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.
Obviously I will never tell anyone that we sat in a deli on a weekday afternoon, looking at gay porn in hopes of discovering our father’s secret identity.
To My Coworkers:
I’m sorry if any of this has turned you on to the realization that WE are the crazy ones—not the patients. I hope this doesn’t ruin your sense of superiority or any hero complex you’ve developed as a coping mechanism for life. Honestly though, it was only a matter of time before someone discovered this goldmine of writing fodder. No indigenous population is safe from a random Westerner stumbling into their yard with a machete and a will to conquer, and when it comes to the Psych Ward— I am that stumbler.
All those times you thought I was rude and texting while you were talking? I was taking notes. I was writing down every ridiculous word coming out of your mouth. Then again, maybe I made it all up. Maybe I don’t even work at a psychiatric hospital, maybe this is all the fictitious outpourings of a deranged barista with too much downtime. If you feel offended that I’ve told these stories, you’re confirming their authenticity. And if they’re true… I think you have more to worry about than I do.
To My Friends:
What are you guys so mad about, I’ve already told you all this stuff. You don’t remember? It’s because we were drunk. But I promise, we had a hell of a time. I blogged about that too.
All my love,
P.S. Hey Pastor B—-! Sorry I called you a hipster.
Do non-internet people know about your blog? Are there stories you keep online, for fear of the wrong people finding them? Has someone ever found out a secret you were trying to keep?
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