When I was child I was obsessed with the idea that aliens would break into my house. I wasn't afraid of them in the traditional sense; no tractor beam was gonna pull me from my bed and into the sky. No little grey man was going to teleport into my bedroom at 3:23 am. Don't ask me why that time is relevant, I have no clue. Most days I'm lucky if I've put my underwear on correctly.
Every night I would have to get out of bed to make sure the door was locked. This was not an option. I couldn't sleep without doing this. Back in the day we lived on a cul-de-sac in a super white part of town; we always left our doors open. Crime was relatively unheard of. If shit happened though, my Grandfather "handled" it so we never worried. He was a tough Mexican man that always had a swagger in his walk, urinated in the rose bushes for convenience purposes, smelled of Tres Flores (Mexican hair gel for our Caucasian friends) and threatened to take out my braces for me with pliers if I complained about them hurting. He was our provider. We talked shit, were terrified of him and loved him fiercely. May he Rest In Peace. Any how, my best thinking was that locking the dead bolt would keep out the damn aliens. I had no problem with a fat man in a red suit lumbering down my chimney to shove gifts under my Christmas tree, but a higher intelligence coming to shoot the shit and maybe play some air hockey? No fucking way! Consumerism is a big green light, intellectual exchanges; no thanks! Every night, same thing: get into bed, get comfortable, nearly fall asleep....damn it! Door......
I have followed this thread over the next 30 years in several areas of my life. There are certain things that have to be just such a way if I am to be happy. Hell, if I'm being honest (I can do it, I can be honest! I can almost hear you assholes snickering) there are certain things that need to be a certain way just so I can move forward in life. Certain things will just paralyze my ass. Don't mistake me, I am not so messed up that I need to lock and unlock my front door a specific number of times before I can pass through it. I feel for folks who go through that. Honestly. I'm not even being a bitch right now. First time for everything. I try not to pick on debilitating illnesses. At least not until I have 20 solid blogs under my belt, then all bets are off. I do rearrange stuff on my desk though; sometimes up to 7 times a day. Do they actually move? Probably not. Do I feel better? Damn right I do!
A sure fire way to fuck with me is to hand me some jacked up sandwich you made me because I don't feel well, but you cut it all off center. Now I feel crappy because I can't eat your shitty sandwich, but you set me up for this. I know you did!! I've had partners in the past who like to play with my silverware while I've stepped away to use the restroom. I'll come back and my place setting is all messed up. I'll set it back to normal and while I'm not looking again, because I'm a Facebook whore, they'll move something again - slowly driving me crazy. I have these plastic toy trucks on my desk that aside from playing with, I also align perfectly with one another and the stapler at least three times a day. My closet is arranged by clothing type and hung accordingly: dresses, skirts, pants, shirts. As seasons change so does the wardrobe. I'm anal retentive. It's not OCD. That's what I've just stumbled upon this very second; it's not OCD in my case - it's anal retentive. I'm an asshole!
I'm an asshole and I'd prefer it if you didn't touch my crap. I know where all my stuff is when I'm in charge of it. That yearbook from 1998? Yep, I know where that is. That instruction booklet for that IKEA bookshelf? Yeah, that's in the garbage because I don't do instructions and I certainly don't read IKEA. Assholes don't read or build things, we arrange the existing things until they fit in our lives they way we want them to.
New World Dissorder of the Third Kind ❤️
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