This is Shit.

I wrote a blog entry. I didn’t like it. It was OK as therapy, and easy to put in a photo, and maybe well expressed, but it’s not what I want. It’s a conversation that’s fun and exciting. This is just a statement. All about me. The cheese doesn’t want to stand alone.

I took out gender pronouns and named no names in trying to protect the guilty, but should the black Irish bigmouth ever read it her feelings might be hurt. And the Mafia reference would not doubt be problematic. Oh, well. I’m afraid the feelings of family and friends cannot be avoided without editing. Or repercussions from the Illuminati. And that’s self-censorship. And hard work. And counter-productive. Catch 22.

Sometimes people should feel the pain or anger your opinion causes, but ought that be inflicted face to face? I don't want to know if they're hurt or mad, but shouldn't I? And when and when not? And the wisdom to know the difference.

Maybe at some point a website would be the solution. People must sign up to read it and can be disallowed if ... "Danger, danger, Will Robinson!" Or readership by invitation. But flexible websites cost money. Facebook  allows us to accept friend requests or not. But Facebook sucks.

Over-thinking again. All is well. Even when it’s not.