Better Left Unblogged

Someone very important to me encouraged me to keep writing and I think I will. Unfortunately, the only thing I want to write about, the only thing I'm currently trying to process (not counting a messy office, an unpacked apartment, piles of laundry and a needy dog), is something I want to keep to myself. I just don't want to share it with anyone else (at least not unless there's coffee or Sitar involved; maybe a nice red). And so in an effort to get off my mind what's on my mind, I started thinking about the whole idea of shared information. Not important stuff, but the effluvia we're surrounded by everyday.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that there's a lot I don't want to share with anyone else. Spend a day home from work and turn on daytime television:

"On today's Maury, Angela has slept with over 100 men, which one is the father? Today she's back to test a seventh man."

"Did my sister sleep with my boyfriend?"

The first ten minutes of The View.

I admit in my early college days I owned a copy of Jerry Springer's "Too Hot for TV," but that was then. I grew up with the "Real World," "Cheaters," and "A Current Affair." Today we have "stolen" celebrity sex tapes and people famous for no apparent reason (Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt, anyone? And how, without cable, do I even know who the hell they are?) I guess I understand the allure of television and magazines, but why can't I check out at my favorite "upscale" discount store without learning about the cashier's vagina? Or was that angina? Don't know, don't care.

(Special thanks to my (soon to be former) work crush for introducing me to effluvia. There are no royalties for words already existing; only shout outs. Word.)