As If My Facebook And Pinterest Addictions Weren’t Productivity-Crippling Enough, I’ve Developed Voyeuristic Fondness For The Secret App, an antisocial repository of confessions from anonymous posters about every imaginable subject.
No subject on Secret is off-limits, which fuels my intrigue exponentially, along with the fact that the app will tell me when a friend has posted a confession – but it won’t divulge which friend. I love this feature because it leads me to imagine which friend the confession belongs to, and, when in doubt, I enjoy assigning confessions to whichever friend I think could pull off the act that required the confession in the first place.
Beyond the legions of predictable “I still think about my ex, even though I have a new girlfriend now,” posts, the most mundane topics can be fodder for a riveting and sometimes brilliant confession:
“My ex sent me a text that read, ‘Please delete my number.’ I responded, ‘Who is this?’”
“Once, I was arguing with my girlfriend and checked Wikipedia to prove I was right. I was wrong. So I edited the article to make it say I was right and sent her the link.”
“If they start putting people in prison for illegal downloads, I just hope they will separate the inmates by music style.”
“I judge people by the fonts they choose in their PowerPoint presentations.”
Although I’ve clicked the “like” hearts of many confessions on Secret, I’ve yet to post any confessions of my own – that’s what this column is for. And if it’s true that confession is good for the soul, I think I’ll feel great once I get a few things off my chest. Judge if you must.
I confess … I’m the one who bites off half the chocolate in the box to see if it’s one I like. If it is, I’ll eat the whole thing. If it’s not, I’ll leave it for you.
I confess … I know how to add oil to my car. I just let someone else do it because I don’t want to get my hands dirty.
I confess … I hide Dr Peppers around the house so there will always be one for me.
I confess … I turn the A/C down three or four degrees every time Bob Hammack leaves the house – even if I know he’s just going to be gone 20 minutes.
I confess … it takes all the restraint I have not to use the comment box of your Facebook posts to correct your spelling and grammar errors. One day, I will find you in real life and I will hold you hostage until you learn the difference between “it’s” and “its” and “your” and “you’re.” I won’t release you until you know when to say “Lauren and I” and when to say “Lauren and me.”
I confess … if you’ve ever crossed me without suffering retribution, it only means I’m lying in wait while your misdeed accrues interest.
I confess … I’ve paid someone at the front of the State Fair cinnamon roll line to get a few extras for me because I can’t be bothered by that ridiculous wait. Several times.
I confess … I’m not interested in joining you at a sporting event of any kind unless I’ll be joining you in your suite.
#VIPparkingrequired.
I confess … if I tell you my age or my weight, I’ll be lying, so just round down.
I confess … I occasionally run my clothes through the laundry before putting your clothes back in the dryer, where they were before I came in like a laundry ninja.
I confess … I might know something about specific articles of clothing that have “disappeared” from the Hammack house. I might also know that, like the 1987 style they represented, they’re not coming back.
I confess … the “clean” towels I put back in your bathroom are just your wet towels that I fluffed in the dryer because you wouldn’t hang them up.
I confess … when I doctor up a photo, I whiten my teeth more than the teeth of other people in the picture. I’m also slightly more suntanned. And just a skosh thinner and more smoothly complected, with a total absence of freckles or wrinkles. With flawless highlights. Doe eyes. Longer lashes. Thin, toned upper arms. What jowls?
