It’s always the blogger’s balance, trying to figure out what to reveal and what to withhold. Do you really need to know how about I danced so hard on Saturday night that the balls of my feet are still aching and tingling 48 hours later? Do you need to know what it was like to tell a friend I hadn’t seen in 10 years about who’d died since we’d last spoken? Do you care about my mad dashes through Manhattan trying to catch a bus called the Dragon Express? Can I tell you about how, as much as I love the Very Serious electronic dance music, there ain’t nuthin’ like a little pop and R&B to get me to make me sweat myself into a slick disco-ball mess? I want to tell you about asymmetrical blond bowl cuts and people who ask “Do you know who I am?” and actually seem to mean it.

The geeks might be amused by the fact that I’m realizing that as much as I love looking at my pretty Apple laptop, I’m 10 times faster at actually getting shit done with a PC laptop. Should I muse about productivity tips right now? Can I tell you all the back-stories about the people I saw on Saturday night — how one of them was the first ecstasy dealer I ever met and another one has a 10-years-younger adorable boyfriend and another just relocated from Los Angeles, and another was there the night Andreas and I first met, and yet another had read this blog since I was living in Olympia in 2001. I want to tell you about making the little veils, and I want to tell you about guys from Pittsburg who call me buddy and say shit like “Buddy, I don’t even READ and I liked that shit. Damn.”

I want to tell you stories until you’re drowning in them like you’ve fallen into an industrial vat of waffle mix, gasping for air under the creamy whirlpools of tangents and anecdotes and asides and apostrophes. I want you to be so full of stories that the words are simmering out your pores like garlic, and everywhere you go people sniff and think, “Hmm, stories” and aren’t sure if they like it or are sort of repulsed. I want you loudly flatulating atonal stories and sighing with relief as you smile apologetically at your spouse and explain, “Too many stories.” Sometimes I think the world is my wall, and the stories are wads at spaghetti I toss at it to see what sticks.