>In Which I Admit to Having an Embarrassing Condition

>”I was so stupid to write about the Starbucks guy,” I told Hubs the other day. “Because at least once a week now, he’s either right in front of me or right behind me in the car pick up line.”

“Do you think he knows about the column?” Hubs asked.

“No,” I said, “He hasn’t given me any strange looks. But I know someone could mention it to him at any time. Yesterday, I got out of my car to wait for Punky and I had to stand right next to him. Right next to him! I was so nervous!”

Over the years, you guys have asked me how on earth I write some of the things I do and still manage to show my face around town. And mostly? It’s all good. I never write anything that I’m not willing to defend directly to that person’s face if it comes down to it. And I generally keep things vague enough that no one but the subject himself would even know exactly whom I was writing about.

But if it’s on my mind, it tends to come out, no matter how hard I try to hold it back. It’s basically an illness, people, an illness I call Writerrhea.

Also? It’s genetic.

You can read about some of the more embarrassing mishaps caused by my condition in this week’s newspaper edition of Suburban Turmoil.

Comment over there, leave your URL, and as always, I’ll visit your blog. And as an added bonus, I told you guys that no one writes hate mail like Nashville Scene readers. A prime example can be found in the comments of this week’s column! I can only assume the poor guy is suffering from Readerrhea, judging from the number of times he used a certain word for, um, poo.

Poor guy. I know exactly what he’s going through.