Some days I go around and around about levels of sharing. What is TMI, what may or may not be damaging should someone ego-surf my name or information. I usually end up figuring that I can only be who I am, and when I say "over-examined" about my life, I've never been kidding. Odds of someone looking me up and then thinking 'nope, can't hire her, can't pay her for making or writing or editing' are minuscule at this point; odds of someone looking me up and deciding I am not relationable (yes, I made that word up) would require the pool of my-possible-partners in this universe to be both much larger and more net-savvy than it apparently is. (::waves:: though, just in case one of y'all has managed to wander thru.) Also, more judgmental. A set of less than 1 is going to have trouble manifesting fingers to operate a keyboard, yes?
I shed words; they collect in the corners like dust. No blank surface is safe. All these empty pixels? Oh, rapture unending as the endless whispering chatter of my brain pours out and pools in the uneven flooring of the basement. Sometimes the bridges catch fire. The trees are burning in the forest, falling without sound, or with their sound subsumed in absence. Hiss crackle roar.
I've never burned down anything I wasn't supposed to.