rising off the concrete.
It's really funny that I freak out when I get behind the wheel of a car. I've had my license for about four years now, and you'd think that over 1300 days would be enough to grasp someting so simple.
I went to the doctor to get a refill prescription for Paxil. He told me he thought I was probably obsessive-compulsive. Now how in the hell can someone know this about you after having met you for about forty minutes in total (if that.) True or not, that diagnosis has made me re-examine things I am compulsive about and my excuses for them.
1. I look at asses a lot. It really happens mostly when Jenny's there (bad influence that she is,) but it can't be helped. An ass is not an important thing. An ass functions as cushion... as a means of comfort. An ass is something nice to grab when its owner thinks a lot of you. When I look at other peoples' asses, I think about Danny (my boyfriend) and how much I miss him. I have no idea why those two topics should be connected, except for the obvious shallow reasons (ooh there's that expression again.) I am a compulsive bottom-maniac. I am an ass-girl all the way. Yeah.
2. My classical guitar. I dream about it, dream of its smell and the way it feels against me. I dream about playing it, about the action on it and the quality of the wood and how old the strings are and if they need changed. I dream about it in a way hungry people dream about chocolate, or subconciously lonely people dream about screwing their co-workers. It's in my blood, and I don't know what I'm going to do when I get out of music school in a year or so and I'm not forced to play it constantly. Maybe then I'll subscribe to the GSP. You never know...
3. The mundane shit. I have to check doors and locks and headlights and alarm clocks four hundred times (exaggeration there, smart-ass) before I actually let them be. I am so afraid I'm not going to wake up in the morning that I have to. You don't understand!*Getting frazzled*. That may be obsessive-compulsive behavior, but I know a lot of people that are like that. So what?
4. Money. I am a tight-wad and a half, except for indulging in the random lascivious spending spree (usually not on myself, unless it's a musical instrument or something.) I have to keep track of my money constantly, keeping my checkbook balanced within 24 hours of a transaction. I have to have all my check stubs in my possession or I freak out, and I'm constantly tallying the prospect of taxes. I am but a lowly psychic, so I shouldn't be concerned about these things. I keep hoping it's a sign that I'll have a shitpile of money someday and won't want an accountant because I'll be so used to doing it all myself. Rawr.
All these things are suggestive of being a little freaky, because I do them to the extreme (I forgot to mention the freakazoid hypochondria, but we won't go there.) But who do I know that doesn't do things to extremes?
Jenny pretty much admits she is (or is becoming) a compulsive nymphomaniac (not the kind requiring pills, but close enough.) My old roommate, the good Jenny, admits to being a perfectionist when it comes to work (which is an understatement concocted by Satan, but what can anyone do about her intelligence except be jealous as hell?) My dog compulsively barks at the trashmen on Monday mornings at my house and attempts to eat them. Who the hell cares? What does it matter whether you are obsessive compulsive, bipolar, schizophrenic. Ok, maybe the last one is a little much. But as long as I can eat, breathe and wipe my ass like other people without problem, maybe I don't need this stupid medicine after all, or this stupid-assed doctor telilng me who and what I am when modern medicine doesn't even have the tools to tap the adrenaline/seratonin and to check the synapses in my brain...?
May fourteenth will be my 21st birthday. My new goal this year is to get rid of this stupid medicine and get absolutely plastered at Charlie's Pub. I'll drink Old Milwaukee if I have to. Just anything to be... normal. To drive a car like a normal person, to stand in line like a normal person, to play guitar up on a stage in front of fifty + people and feel it like I do when I'm alone.
Yeah.
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