I can't keep secrets.

When people say, "You can't tell anyone," I tell everyone.

When they say, "Don't repeat this," I repeat it. Repeatedly.

When someone says, "Can you keep a secret?", I say yes.

But I'm lying.

I just CAN'T not tell. I try to keep a secret. I do. But somehow, like Tara Reid's breast at a red carpet event, it just slips out.

I'm pretty sure it's a birth defect I have. Or maybe it's a disease--like alcoholism or syphilis (insert your own Tara Reid joke here.)

I'm working hard to get over this devastating illness. But it's not easy. It's not like other addictions. They don't have a secret patch or secret gum to help you cut down.

(And, by the way, doesn't a secret patch sound like a place where a bunny-child-abuser would take the little baby bunnies to do horrible bunny things to them? "Come on Cottontail, you know not to tell mommy about our trip to the secret patch, right?" )

I just can't stop. So far, the only solution I've found is to continue to tell the secrets, I just tell them to people who don't CARE. Like this:

"Hey blog readers, you know Wendy? She tells everyone she's a virgin but really she had a one-night stand with a busboy when she was nineteen."

See? You don't care even a little bit. I get the JOY of telling secrets, without the PAIN of ruining someone's life.

I can tell secrets with reckless abandon.

But if you do, somehow, feel compelled to tell me a secret....

Well, don't say I didn't warn you.