I always feel guilty when I engage in reckless gossip or personal commentary, although I do love it so. This morning I wrote a long and chatty piece of fluff about my friend's, well let's call it a midlife crisis, shall we? After I posted it we went to buy some tomato plants. As I looked at the Jaune Flamée I realized what a jerk I was for writing about him. I proceeded to feel guiltier and guiltier until the car ride home had me screaming about the infernal racket of that beating heart. It seemed most appropriate to just delete the damned thing upon my return, so I did. The post now joins the ranks of that really disgusting X-Files' episode about the incestuous Peacock family that FOX vowed never to air again. Well, sort of.
I sometimes wish I was able to go back and delete conversations. Like the moment I announced to the family that Steve's sister's boyfriend had just gotten a vasectomy. What? Oh, was that a secret? Or the Thanksgiving my mother articulated how happy she was my brother never experimented with drugs and I rolled my eyes and reminded her that he went to UC Santa Cruz - the best we could hope for is that he wasn't actually a grower.
I am not a malicious gossip, I just delight in stories and I love to share them. If you haven't noticed, I have very few secrets myself and even the ones I do have I am hard-pressed not to shout about online (sometimes in blank verse.) This does not mean that a little reticence about the affairs (haha, excuse me) of others would not become me. It would. I will try to do better.
So with an eye towards leaving the gossip in the hands of the professionals I give you this: Gawker
Quick question, who ARE these people? Right, I know Seinfeld of course, fuck you, it is MINNESOTA not Pluto but... Is it a New York thing? Because it simply cannot be that I am a provincial. Oh. No.