EDITORIAL & OPINIONS
This column is 506 words long
I am neurotic.
And, I love Oreos. How am I neurotic you may ask? Well, here it is. I'm going to lay it all out on the line for you.
I count. Everything. I know, I know, most people count things. But I count everything. The most obvious is when I eat. I count the number of bites. For every bite I take, I have to count the number of chews I take. And they all must be even.
Stemming from that, most things in my life have to be even. If there are three grapes, or olives or Glosette raisins left, I can only eat two. I cannot bring myself to eat the third one. If I have to, I have to split it in half and count them as two separate entities.
I know, that's fucked up.
When I was younger, it was worse. I would count the number of steps I took. Again, they always had to be even numbers. But get this one. My favourite number?
Odd, ain't it?
How else am I kinda crazy? I like things orderly. On the fridge in my apartment, I have four cereal boxes. I love cereal. They all have to face a certain way.
My food can't touch on the plate. When I'm chewing it evenly, my peas can't touch my mashed potatoes. And the meat can't touch the vegetables. Everything must be separated.
The toilet lid has to be down when the toilet is flushed. Why? Because don't you know stuff floats in the air around a 10 foot radius when you flush? That's what I heard on TV and I believe it. Being crazy means toilet lid down. The end.
Also, my towel after a shower must be laid out flat to dry. I hang it on a laundry rack in my room. Why do I do this? Because bacteria likes warm, moist places to grow. And they ARE NOT going to be growing on my towel. That's just plain gross.
Let's see. What else do I do?
The T-shirts in my dresser are arranged by "likeability." If I like the shirts and they're in high rotation, they go on one side. The "shitty" shirts go on the other side. Bottom shelf. Off to the side.
I constantly check to make sure I have my bus pass on me for some reason. I have this constant fear I've somehow dropped it as I got on the bus and will have to shell out another $70 for a new one. Fuck that shit. So I check, at least three times, on the ride to school to make sure it's in my bag... and once more as I get off for good measure.
So there you have it. A list of the things I do. There are more, but I don't have much more room for it. So, as you can see, I am a neurotic, obsessive compulsive, angry, rage-filled Italian who loves Oreos.
Love it or leave it. The end.