What the hell was I thinking?

Yesterday started innocently enough. 

A late breakfast, some hot coffee, a quick strike from Harry Kane – the definition of a solid weekend, really. 

I reached for my phone to fire off a tweet, refined my language and chose a hashtag. 

I almost hit send before, thank God, noticing I was logged into the wrong handle. 

Tweeting about football to my writing friends? What’s next, tweeting about Pushkin to my fellow cockerels? What about the politicos? What would they want to be privy to? None of it, I’d suppose. 

But then what about the inconveniently inbetween?

What about the times when a Korean short story (about a footballer, no less) has me wanting to share with multiple audiences? Of course, there’s the RT, but from which account should it all begin?

You see, somewhere along the way I noted (correctly, I think) that people I talk to about current events didn’t appreciate the 40-60 tweets I can fire off during a London Derby. Similarly, not all football fans like being spammed with ads for my latest blog post. 

I get that, and I think those boundaries were well conceived… But what has resulted is something not so (or far too) tidy. 

What I am now is a fraction. On any handle, in any conversation, I’m limiting what I say to whomever, and that just rarely feels satisfying. 

I behave as if I believe that my friends don’t want me to have multiple interests, which in a way is me denying that same diversity may exist in them. 

To be sure, the advertising of my author page, the rants of my football account, those earn a place of their own. But do those that know ME – on a personal Facebook page or on my original Twitter handle – not assume (or hope?) that there might be something more to me?

I compartmentalized my life for business, and all my friends became customers. 

What the hell was I thinking?

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