I’m really good at keeping secrets. Not my own, mind you, but secrets that belong to someone else. ”You can’t tell anyone,” my friend will say, and I’ll solemnly nod yes as I open a vault in my memory where the secret will stay, bound and gagged, until the end of time.
Whenever I have a secret of my own, my inner monologue goes something like this: Oh my gosh, a secret! So fun, this secret, so secret-y. I can’t tell anyone about this. Except maybe David. No, definitely David! David can totally know. And, like, maybe a few of my best friends. I’ll obviously tell them, but no one else. This has to stay secret, top secret! And then I’ll immediately tell everyone via Twitter because, as on of my friends so aptly put in when we were arguing once, I don’t have a filter*.
All this to say that I have a secret. A really exciting secret, a wonderful secret!, but right now I have to keep it, well, secret. Mostly secret, I mean. But tomorrow, I’m going to tell you all about it. Unless I explode first, which is actually a possibility…
*And while I still stand by the fact that I absolutely do have a filter, I will admit that said filter is not as sensitive as, say, a coffee filter, but is on par with a gold sifter, I think.