I blog under a pseudonym, but there are a number of people in my real life who know who I am here. In fact, it’s true that a number of my readers, some of whom have never met me in that real life, know who I am, as well.
I don’t mind this so much; there’s nothing that I have yet put out into the ether that I wouldn’t tell a friend on a bus and still be comfortable having a stranger overhear.
What does kind of suck, though, is when I want to rail about things in my real life. I’ve learned, though stinging experience, that sometimes the people involved in some of the stickier parts of my experiences don’t appreciate my perspective on those situations, and that often just makes things worse.
I’m really not interested in making things worse, but this is one of the times where I really wish no one in my real life knew that I write here.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go seethe for a while…
(edited to include; this afternoon, someone reasonably close to the situation of which I so cagily speak approached me to ask if I was feeling better than I was the other day – though, to be honest, I have no idea what she was referring to as I had not spoken to her since well before this particular bit of shit hit my fan. Anyway, as I was sitting there, trying to gauge what an appropriate response would be (to this person of some significant influence), my husband helpfully piped up and told her, “NO, she’s a mess.” God, I love that man.)