There are some things he should keep to himself

It would be a lot easier to skip the writing today, to skip it for a few days, but I'm certain at least one friend would tell me that would be the wrong thing to do. I'll make no bones about it. I've had a bad day. I didn't want to approach the subject at all, but there's no overlooking the fact that nothing else has taken precedence today. I could avoid it, but there'd be nothing but a blank space here. I guess I could have taken the pomo route, but it isn't an original idea. (Dave Eggers' short story "There are Some Things He Should Keep to Himself" in How We are Hungry consists of the title on one page followed by five blank pages.)

I'm not trying to be coy as I skimp on details. I just don't think it is appropriate for me to write about unless I can do so in the most oblique way possible. Perhaps that will come in time. Perhaps not. Certainly not today.

I realize that as a reader this has to be frustrating. That's a feeling I know really well at the moment, so go with it. I don't want to cause undue alarm or encourage a guessing game, so let me assure you that my health is fine, no one has died, and this is not anything catastrophic. It hurts me deeply, emotionally speaking, but that's all I'll say for the time being.

I cringe that this reads like earnest moping, practically a parody of the conception of blogs as emotional puke buckets. I'm happy that I've been able to use this corner of the internet to converse with you in a manner more forthcoming than I ever intended it to be. I think it's been good for me, and it's been a pleasure getting to know many of my readers, something that I don't know would take place without a more personal touch. That being said, on days like today I feel guilty for unloading on you.

Ordinarily I wouldn't go trolling for sympathy, but I would greatly appreciate some kind, reassuring words from you today. I know I will be OK, but for now I could use a hug. Since that's not feasible, I welcome your comments.