Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton sometimes do scary famous.

Someone called me semi-famous the other day. And well, it made me really uncomfortable. Sure, when I was busy being an ugly ducking in Washington Heights with my big pink plastic frame glasses and my gawky thirteen-year-old-ness, I read my Entertainment Weekly and dreamed of being a star. But that was before I saw those ugly magazines that you read at the checkout aisle on your way out of the supermarket. Being famous doesn’t look so fun the way that those magazines spin it.

So I confess being called semi-famous made me crawl in a hole. In fact, lately, I’ve been feeling like too much of an outie and not enough of an innie. And you know, we are not talking about belly buttons.

It’s, like, finally that thing about over-sharing my very private aunt was always trying to explain to me FINALLY hit me. Sometimes, I don’t feel like sharing. Sometimes, I will even pretend to be excruciatingly boring when people ask me about myself and “what I do.” I realized I don’t want EVERYONE to “know” me. Because it doesn’t matter how many people know you, only a few of them are ever going to GET you.

Okay, obviously, this conversation is moot unless I curl up and close up my blog or stop writing my book or stop letting people pay me to talk about myself in public. Still, I think every once in a while, like right now for instance, I’m going to play things close to my chest. Maybe I’ll blog about things that have nothing to do with me, I’ll interrogate people on their lives and I’ll turn down offers to talk about myself in public. No, I’m kidding about the last one. Tell people to pay me to come talk about myself in public at your local whatever.

Okay, maybe I’m a little ambivalent. Is that the right word? Maybe this is a moody moment?