I realized today, when I was telling a few of my students "Shorty's tale" that I, Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, I am a textbook over-sharer.
The minute I finished the story of the epic adventure and they were laughing, I had a moment where I was kind of "oh..." on the inside.
It's not that I'm worried what they'll think about me, because I really, truly don't- I mean, really don't. If I cared what they thought I'd actually put effort into my appearance at work once in a while and bother with things like brushing my hair, wiping the crumbs off of my face, or bathing more often. Maybe I'd even pick the stuff out of my teeth occasionally.
No, what struck me was, "Hey! Maybe they don't want to know about your pet's pooping habits! Maybe no one cares about that time you saw a squirrel eating a chicken wing on the way to work (I did- for realsies!) Maybe, just maybe, no one wants to know how good you are at pretend tap dancing, dammit! Maybe they just listen because they have to!
Then I thought, "Duh- of course they want to hear every drop of goodness and wisdom that comes forth from your pie-hole, because you're awesome, Whiskey."
So...then I launched into telling them the fantastical tale of the time I found a dollar in a bus station bathroom, tucked neatly under the gelatinous bottom of a sleeping lady-hobo.
And they were mesmerized...
Hi, my name is Whiskey and I'm an over-sharer.
Happy nearly Friday, my little shoe-lickers. Happy nearly Friday.