Yesterday I was hanging out with the coolest woman I know and I was confessing to her a weakness in my character that I had confessed to you, Faithful Readers, earlier this week in my blog. And she said, ‘Yeah, I know, I read your blog.’

She’s probably reading this right now. Which is flattering! Thanks for stopping by, really. But it’s also the kind of thing that makes you think twice about this wacky world of the internet. I’m a sharer by nature; I think that my life and my opinions are so interesting that I feel the need to tell you all about them all the time. I learned a long time ago that pouring your heart out in a blog – while actually therapeutic in many ways – is just asking for trouble later on. Or immediately, depending on who reads it.

This is why I can never be a real blogger or a memoirist. I’m sort of fascinated by the people who do expose every aspect of their lives and I’d sort of love to do the same; this past year has seen some personal events that I think would make very interesting reading. But I would be in such a world of shit if I wrote about them – and I’m not even talking about the lovely folks who spend their days at demeaning jobs trolling my comment sections.

So I’ll always just be a pundit. And even that is getting tougher. My new roommate is a really terrific guy, but after I wrote some really awful things about Farscape and its fans he showed me his Farscape DVD collection. Oops!

There’s another side that’s trouble, too – the side where I’ll be out and say something that I think will kill the crowd and somebody will say, ‘Yeah, you wrote that on CHUD this week.’ Ouch. Busted.

I think I liked it better when no one I knew read my stuff*.

*People I know: Please don’t stop reading.