I’m like a priest. Well, not at all, really, only in the way that everyone confesses to a priest. Otherwise, I’m very un-priest-like.

Why does everyone at work tell me EVERYTHING?

I mean, I know the answer to that question, and it’s that for three years I’ve maintained a pretty much perfect record of not gossiping, of being a good listener, and being discreet.

And I won’t pretend that I’m not, as Edith Wharton puts it in The Age of Innocence, “fully aware that [my] reputation for discretion increased [my] opportunities of finding out what [I] wanted to know.”

It’s has come in handy on rare occasion. But by and large, I don’t want to know.

What is it exactly that I know?

Lots of things. Everything short of where the bodies are buried. Straight from the horses mouth. Stuff that would make you say “Wow” and you don’t even know the people in question.

And most days it’s fine, but today is one of those rare days when I’m dying to spill.

End rant. I’m ok now.