As I sit here this morning, slamming coffee as fast as I can swallow and googling "how to fake your own death", I am reasonably certain I am heading for a complete melt down. I can feel the crazy so close, I keep turing around to check for a guy with wild hair and a hat made out of aluminum sneaking up on me.
When I get like this it's never one thing that got me here. It's always more like a big bunch of little upsets during which I stuffed the OCD bubble down instead of letting it fly. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder is a lot like a shaken pop bottle. If you release it slowly and carefully, nobody gets covered in sticky.
Let's just say that I'm in such a state, it is highly likely anyone who stands near me today is going to need a roll of paper towels.
Why? Why am I a lovely bunch of coconuts this morning?
My Father is on his way. Even as I typed that, I burped OCD a little. Now I feel like I can't use the "g" on my key board any more or somethin- bad will happen. That's just -reat.
I have cleaned everythin- in my house in preparation for his inspection... I mean visit. I have also spent a stupid amount of money on thin-s that I am hopeful will make me appear to have it all to-ether and not at all crazy.
There are new pots and pans so that he'll never know I've been usin- the same ones for several husbands now.
New pillows, new bathroom stuff, new back yard thin-s.
I even have a new water filter because I worried the stuff that currently comes out of the faucet is not clean enou-h for the man who raised me.
Another bubble. Damn. Now I have to -o wash my hands. Han- on. I'll be back.
OK. I washed the crazy off. Back to my Father's visit.
Crap. Did you know the word Father has that certain number of letters that I don't like? You know...the one between five and seven? That's bad. I can -et throu-h this thou-h. I'll just say Daddy instead.
Daddy. Look at all the d's in that word. That's three d's in one word. I'm not a fan of three either, but I can tolerate it so lon- as I don't allow myself to mentally multiply it.
Too late. Multiplication has taken place.
It isn't that Pop is a bad -uy. On the contrary. He has a -reat respect for women who keep a clean house, know how to make li-ht and fluffy biscuits and who don't -et married every time the wind blows. He especially likes people who aren't crazy because as far as he and the rest of my family are concerned, crazy people are like knuckle-poppers. If we'd all do somethin- else with our hands, we'd be fine.
Idle hands are the devil's workshop.
Pop. One, two, three. Devil's. One, two, three, four, five, number I hate. Lovely.
So you see, the -uy who is -oin- to show up here early tomorrow mornin- is not just some man. He is the Bi- -uy. He holds the keys to the bolted door to the room where my self esteem lives a quiet little life, hidin- underneath the table.
I'm sorry to cut you off so abruptly kids, but it's time to -o to work and I have yet to boil my Yorkies in peroxide.
Don't freak out. I'm really just -ivin- them a bath, but the words "boil" and "peroxide" make me happy.
The definition of love.
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