I Don't Want Your Secrets
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There must be something in my face that tells people that it is safe to confide their deepest, darkest secrets in me, that I can be trusted to hold these tales deep within my heart, never telling a soul.
It's not true.
I thrive on gossip. It's not something I do purposely, it is as compulsive as the hourly showers and the cleptomania. Something deep inside me compells me to spread the news to everyone I know. While you're pouring your heart out to me I'm thinking about who I'm going to tell first. No sooner is the promise never to repeat the secret spoken then I am on the phone, bursting with anticipation.
Me: Hi! How're you!
Andy: I'm studying. I have finals and I haven't slept in five days.
Me: That's great! Guess what! Ben is gay! Don't tell anyone, it's a secret.
Andy: Why did you tell me??
Me: It slipped! It was an accident!
And so the pressure to keep quiet has passed from me to the next person on the chain, who inevitably let's it slip to the originator that he knows the awful truth.
Ben: Andy, I'm gay.
Andy: Oh god yeah, I've known for months.
Andy: Yeah, Andrea told me like three months ago.
and then it goes like,
Ben: YOU TOLD ANDY I WAS GAY!
Me: He pried it out of me!
Me: He asked! I thought he knew!
Ben: Oh, ok. Well, don't tell anyone, but I'm pregnant.
And so the awful cycle continues.
So a plea to those of you out there who look at my little red blood mouth down there and think that I look like the sort of girl you can dump all of your troubles on safely and are tempted to email me your secrets: don't do it. For both of our sakes.
Andrea Spencer eats kittens and spills secrets.