Compulsion

Driving, pushing, controlling, suffocating, embarrassing. My self-esteem was low, like a suburban street with a stop sign at every corner. DANGER: DISTRACTION IS IMMINENT. Rubber bands snap from my wrists to my knees. “Fix those cuffs. You look like a mess.” I heard it a hundred times a day, maybe more. It’s something that is pointed out to me like a stain on my shirt that I have to walk around with, but none of this matters most of the time. Look, messy again. Those cuffs are stuck under my shoe tongue. But I digress. This isn’t all about one facet of my life; it’s about all of them. Comics, vinyl, collectible everything, standing as a testament to my pack-rat-got-to-have-it-all mentality. There are people that collect something. I collect everything. Actions that cause reactions. Out to eat. It’s like I only go to restaurants with metal tables and magnetic napkins. Spot clean. These tables are probably cleaner after I’ve done my cleaning. They say when you recognize a problem, it’s easier to fix; I say they are all liars with twisted pant cuffs. It isn’t as debilitating as some things are, but I guess you can learn to live with anything. Is it strange to become physically ill at the thought of losing belongings? It’s all just stuff, right? Not mine. Night terrors of garbage trucks hauling off my memories to the black hole landfill. Irreplaceable, that’s my reason. Once in my possession these things become a new form of tapeworm that feeds on logical reasoning and the will to budget. They could say these things are what makes me me. They could also say it makes me crazy, but who are they anyway?

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