Done

I was furious last night.

The details aren't relevant, only because I'm not a bridge burner, though I will say I confirmed something about the Greenwich situation that I suspected all along.

I. Just. Knew.

Top that off with things that truly disappointed me, and you've got one hot, steaming pile of Rob.

I'm burying the lede (or lead, you call) here. Back to my point: I was pissed at something and instead of keeping it to myself, or ranting to Paul Silverfarb or Lisa, I did something else.

I posted on social media.

I also ranted to Paul and Lisa, but you get my point.

I wrote, simply: I'm done. Just done.

I wasn't bothered by it either, but then my mother, who comments on everything (and I mean ev...ery...thing), did her thing.

That was one. Then my friend Harold asked if I was OK. Then I got a text from John Kovach. Lisa was getting texts.

I deleted the post.

Oops.

Regardless of the situation, I should have been better than that. I shouldn't have let that happen. In a time in which watching the collapse of people by watching the insanity they write on Facebook makes for great entertainment, I need to be better.

I'm always advocating to not be that narcissistic tool (except for harmless self-taken pictures). I'm always saying to be wise, and not flash your social media muscles. Don't be a keyboard genius. I try - hard - to take the high road.

In this case, I goofed, and I own up to it.

I'm super, hyper-stressed these days (enough that it's kept me off the blogsie wogsie). To explain would have people saying that I complain too much behind my back, so really, why? I'll just say the stress has been unhealthy, and we'll carry on, won't we?

Am I OK? No. Not really. But there's really nothing to see. I should have kept it offline.

Move along. Move along.