There is a boy, and that boy does not want to be written about. Maybe because he has a proper old-school job (he is a doctor. Is that revealing too much?), in which they keep things confidential. So he asks me not to write about him, and I agree. He looks surprised. Almost suspicious.
I suppose Kanye and Kim had this conversation. (And we’re just like them, except for the hip-hop and the ass.) They must have negotiated some compromise between her being a sex-tape, reality-TV-show, selfie-loving narcissist and him being the kind of person who punches TMZ reporters while screaming “Don’t talk to me again!” Still, oversharing is no longer only a celebrity problem. It’s the argument all modern partnerships have, with couples drawing up prenups concerning how much they’ll share their story on social media in the same way we once split up and divided CD collections. So instead of “You take the Lynyrd Skynyrd, I’ll have Dolly Parton’s greatest hits”, he can now keep the dull anecdotes about how we met and I’ll claim our fight about whether personal freedom should extend to selling your own kidneys.
I agree to not writing about the boy (after all, Kanye gets to opt out of Keeping Up with the Kardashians), but it’s not really because I’m so amenable; rather, I’m done with oversharing.
Once, I sung sweet tributes to oversharing. I loved confessional columnists, misery memoirists, I’d defend Jeremy Kyle guests — brave enough to let it all hang out. I regarded oversharing, which sounds like an insult, as a celebration of courage.
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