What is Private if Poop Isn't?

For the first time in my life as a Blogger, I have chosen to edit myself. I have a long-ass entry blabbing on and on about vast age differences btwn lovers. For example the May-December sort of arrangement. They're commonly called Craddle robbers, Second Wives, Gigolos, and do'ers of the M.I.L.F. In it, I let it slip that I am currently suffering from such an affliction.

Making 'the post' terrifies me. Whether or not it's good for me to confess, I don't know. What are my motives in posting my little diatribe? Release? Relief? Is it purely selfish? When I feel angst or restlessness, I usually just regurgitate it into stand up material. Take it to the stage and let it fly, make it public. (I don't see the risk in sharing something with 20-100 strangers. ) But I don't have any shows lined up. I haven't done a set in more than 4 weeks. Privately, I take the silent route. Hold it in, hope it dies quickly and if it gives me diarrhea I buy nice toilet paper. Do unto your butt as you would have your butt do unto you, that's my motto.

The age thing isn't what's killing me. That would be new and interesting. But this wrestling match is old fashioned Shan to the hilt. I'm a chicken. An obessive little chicken with exceedingly high privacy needs. While I'm willing to blow this wad w/ the blogging world, but not with anyone in my immediate vicinity.

I'm going to sit on it this weekend. Most likely, the bulk of this sitting will take place on the nearest toilet.