The trouble with writing down what you think and do is that others might read it.
A girl I admired in high school told me her mom outdid herself digging her diary out from the insides of a lounge chair. Its contents caused a bit of a stir because it confirmed previous accusations that the dad had roving hands.
Ted found and read all of my diaries while I was in the hospital, leading him to declare that he didn't really know me at all, and why, he asked, is Frank the apple of my eye (my poetry really sucks, that's why it's in my diary.)
Mike wants to know why he is Mike Exotic in my blog, and wasn't that the name of my first husband? Because it's the one syllable name to came to mind as I was writing, and no, it definitely was not.
Sergey declared yesterday, after reading Sunday's post, that he will not be reading my blog any more. He does not approve of my life style choices. Touche. Since he is no longer My Other Reader I can squeeze in that attributing all your problems to your mother, but turning around and saying I don't appreciate my mom when I do, is an example of such astoundingly unembarrassed projection that it's time to give me a break and reconsider what I say under the loupe of possibly true. Perhaps I have surpassed my programming.
The other trouble with writing is that no one really cares. That's why I use AdWords to drive traffic.