If you see me in public, don’t come over to talk about my work.
Not “unless it’s quick.” Not “unless it’s positive.” Not “unless I look free.”
Just don’t.
This isn’t arrogance. It’s boundaries.
And apparently they need to be written down, because too many people think being visible online means you’re available in person.
The Act
The version of me you know — the writer, the ranter, the one who tears into accessibility failures or rips Linux a new one — that’s a persona.
Not fake. Not dishonest. Just deliberate.
It’s tuned for the internet, built to survive in a world that eats subtlety alive. It’s the volume turned up, the emotion sharpened, the thoughts sculpted until they’re worth reading.
That version of me exists because it has to. The quiet one gets ignored. The soft one gets drowned out. The tired one doesn’t trend.
So I built a voice that could.
But that voice isn’t who’s standing in line at a café or sitting on a park bench.
When you come up to talk about my posts or my opinions or my “takes,” what you’re doing is summoning the act. You’re calling the performer back on stage when they’ve already gone home.
It’s Still Work
And yes, I know — this isn’t my day job. I don’t get paid for the blog, or for the writing, or for half the things I pour time and energy into.
But don’t mistake unpaid for effortless.
Writing, thinking, arguing, explaining — that’s work. Creative work. Emotional work. The kind of work that follows you around and gnaws at your brain long after you close the editor.
It takes energy to care about this stuff — to articulate it, to stay informed, to keep dissecting the same problems over and over. It burns the same mental circuits any job does.
So even though I don’t clock in, I still clock out.
When I’m done writing, I stop. When I’m off the clock, I want to be off the clock.
That’s what public encounters take from me: they force the switch back on. Suddenly, I’m back in creator mode.
Suddenly, I’m not just some person trying to exist — I’m “the writer” again, whether I wanted to be or not.
It’s not flattering. It’s exhausting.
What I Actually Want
Here’s the thing people always misunderstand:
It’s not that I hate interaction. I like people. I like real conversation. I like actually meeting people — not readers, not fans, not “fellow enthusiasts,” but people.
But that kind of connection happens slowly, genuinely, between equals. It’s not a transaction. It’s not you quoting something I said and waiting for the performance to start up again.
If we ever meet and end up talking, I want it to be as two humans — not as you meeting your personal feed algorithm in 3D.
And that means sometimes I’ll be quiet. Sometimes I won’t have a hot take. Sometimes I’ll just shrug and say, “I don’t know. I don’t care.”
That’s not me being rude — that’s me being human.
If what you liked about my writing was the honesty, then let that honesty extend to the reality that I don’t live in perpetual commentary mode.
You liked the performance because it was real — but the reality behind it isn’t the performance.
The Mask
Online, I’m deliberate.
I choose when to speak, what to say, how much to share.
That version of me is built for durability — a pressure-tested outer shell that can take hits and keep going.
In person, there’s no shell. No edit button. No “save draft.” Just me.
The loud, articulate voice you know from the page takes energy to inhabit. It’s not how I live, it’s how I work. And the only reason that public version can exist is because I protect the private one.
When you breach that wall and treat me like the persona, you’re not connecting — you’re trespassing.
What Respect Looks Like
If you recognize me in public, the respectful thing to do isn’t to come over. It’s to leave me alone.
Walk by. Keep it in your head. Maybe smile to yourself if you must.
Respect isn’t showing me that you recognize me.
Respect is recognizing that you don’t need to.
And if we do ever talk — if it happens naturally, if we actually meet as people — don’t expect the act. Don’t expect a constant stream of fire and opinions. Sometimes I’ll be funny, or quiet, or distracted, or kind of boring. That’s life.
If you can handle that, then you’re getting to know the person, not the performance.
And that’s the only kind of interaction I actually want.
The Bottom Line
The online version of me — the loud, confident, relentless one — is the product. It’s what I make.
The real one — the one standing in a queue, or having a drink, or just trying to enjoy the day — doesn’t exist for public access.
Even though I don’t get paid for this, it’s still work.
And when I’m done working, I’m done.
I like people. I just don’t like being treated like a living extension of my own content.
So if you see me in public, let me stay off the clock.
Don’t summon the act. Don’t restart the performance. Don’t turn a quiet moment into a scene.
If you like what I write, thank you — sincerely. I’m glad it reached you.
But if you ever see me out there in the world, let that be enough.