When your job is writing and sharing incredibly personal stories, there’s a question you have to run through in your head a few dozen times a week.

How embarrassing is this story, and is the value in it (be it entertainment, educational, or both) enough that the benefit in sharing it outweighs how mortifying it is?

For me, the initial embarrassment has always been worth it. I’ve made a name for myself sharing a little too much about my personal life, and I’ve never regretted a story I’ve told. These experiences, though embarrassing, often offer a lot of insight into the nature of relationships, hookup culture, and rash decision making.

Also, I mean, they’re just pretty f*cking funny.

However, there’s one story I’ve never told because I couldn’t justify the embarrassment, regardless of what kind of Grey’s Anatomy-style “lesson of the day” it had the potential to teach others. The time has come though, as I’m older and more secure in who I am.

Plus, I just moved halfway across the country, so there’s little chance that any of the parties involved will ever see me again anyway.

So here goes.


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