ocd

I don't like the number 5 for some reason. I think that reason is because I imagine five people and they have to split up into pairs. One person gets left out. Oh no! I don't like people being left out, hence I don't like the number 5.

I used to eat processed fat free cheese slices and four saltines everyday. I had a very specific way I'd eat them, too. In fact, I have a specific way I eat just about everything, from Subway sandwiches to ice cream cones to ice cubes. Everything has a pattern, everything is a ritual, everything is a sort of prayer (offered to whom?).

I gave up acting when I was in high school because I doubted that I'd ever be able to win an Academy Award. It was an Oscar or nothing. I still regret to this day that I gave up the one thing that brought me such unbelievable joy.

Whenever it's raining outside, I dare myself to try to step in between the raindrops, never once getting wet. I've yet to accept the dare, but when I do I know I'll be as dry as a bone.

Anytime I write by hand, I have to make sure I close the Os and the As and any of the other letters that could potentially be left open. If I leave a letter open, something might escape. But what? Happiness? Inspiration? Life?

While reading a book, I have to end on a page that ends in the number 4. And I have to make sure the paragraphs on the page when added up with the page number equal an even number. And I try to get as close to either 8 or 12 as I can. For example, if I end on page 64, I will read two more paragraphs so that I get the number 12. 6+4+2=12. Makes so much/no sense to me!

When it comes down to it, we all put our pants on one leg at a time. That is, unless our ritual says otherwise.

slug

I feel like a shell-less terrestrial gastropod mollusc lately. Maybe I should use that in my About Me section on a dating website? Maybe I should discard the dating sites and catch romantic victims in my web instead.

shift

I abandon my writing in small ways everyday. I put off writing to do myriad things, from obsessively organizing books I'll never read to massaging the neighborhood cat.

I also take on different identities and grand life plans. One week I'm a French art dealer, the next I'm fighting to save our rivers and oceans in a courtroom. Oh, and religions? Sure, I'll fool around with those as well. Which god(dess) will it be today? Who up there gets to hear my voice tonight? Well, whoever you are, would you mind recording what I say so I can listen to it and try to memorize my tone and inflection? I've been having a difficult time picking my voice out from the crowd for nearly 30 years now.

But then again, maybe these wild shifts in identity and wide range of interests are nothing more than ingredients for some stew of a story. Just throw it all into the pot, Meg. It will simmer for a long time and the scent of it from the stove will drive you crazy, but you'll soon get to taste it. And you'll taste it not just on your tongue, but in your day-to-day life. Are you sure you're ready for this story to take over? Yes. Let her speak.

Just be patient with me. The feast is about to start.