One of the dangers of writing about your own life—the people who crossed your meandering path, all those brilliant mistakes you made along the way—is that sooner or later you’ll inevitably tell a story that pisses someone off. Turns out some folks don’t take kindly to having their mischievous hijinks recorded on the Internet. Some even find that kind of dubious publicity to be downright inconvenient.
Here’s the plan. Although I won’t come right out and lie, I’m neither young enough nor cruel enough to assume my commitment to brutal truth entitles me to be an asshole. So in addition to certain editorial changes and factual distortions (some of which I’ll make merely to suit my narrative whims, which are of course profligate and unusual), I will also change names to protect the innocent, guilty, or otherwise unnaturally shy. If you happen to recognize someone in these pages, I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from revealing their identity.
Of course, we all know that secrets have a way of coming unburied and that everything comes out in the end, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to be discrete. After all, it’s impolite to kiss and tell. I don’t do it. Neither should you.