On vacation again this week -- which means I've consistently failed at sleeping in, I'm up $5000+ in computer solitaire while playing by the Vegas rules, and my house is so clean that the only thing that would happen if you licked the floor is that you'd dirty it up with your disgusting spit and I'd have to beat you to pieces with my Swiffer Wet Jet. Which I would then use to promptly soak up your blood. My DVDs are completely alphabetized, the food in my fridge is lined up according to height, my clothes are arranged by colour in the closet, and if you move any of it, I. Will. Kill. You. I will kill you neatly. I will kill you the way Dexter kills other serial killers -- everything covered in plastic, your individual body parts wrapped up carefully and dropped in the river because to me, fucking with my stuff puts you in the same category as a serial killer.
Yes, I know that's crazy. I. Don't. Care. I don't like people moving my stuff or messing with my stuff or changing how I've set up my stuff or questioning why I've done stuff with my stuff the way I've done it. It's my stuff, and I get to do with it what I want. And for the love of all things good, please don't ask me to explain why all the spines of my books have to be facing the same way, or why the slats on the blinds have to be completely even up both sides, why I can't function properly if someone writes in my notebook at work, or why I start having seizures when closet doors are left open. I really don't know. I just like it to be that way. I need it to be that way. Stuff is easy. I can make stuff do what I want it to do, because it is just stuff. It can't move itself around or change where it goes or get bigger or smaller or go away. If I put something somewhere, I know where it will be when I need it. And if it does get messed up, I can fix it. I can put it back the way it's supposed to be.
Yep - stuff is awesome. Easy, inanimate, dumb stuff. It's people that suck. They suck harder than a drug addict after you tell him meth comes out of horse dicks, then leave him unsupervised at a ranch for a few hours.
People don't actually suck. I take that back. I could delete it and just type something different, but then you would miss out on the experience of reading the words "suck harder than a drug addict after you tell him meth comes out of horse dicks," and quite frankly, I'm pretty impressed with myself for coming up with that one. People don't suck. They just do things you don't want them to do and say things you don't want them to say. Sometimes they move around or change where they go or get bigger or smaller or go away.
For someone like me -- someone who somehow JUST KNOWS that something in my house has been moved an infinitesimal bit and I have to find out what and put it back where it's supposed to be or I will not be sleeping tonight and I'm going to lynch the jerk that did this to me -- this poses a particular problem. It's not that I want to control what everyone does or says or whatevers, I just don't know what to do after they do or say or whatever it. It's not something I can put back, like a salt shaker that someone set down on the table in the wrong place or a Pirates of the Caribbean 2 DVD that OBVIOUSLY shouldn't be on the shelf before the Pirate of the Caribbean 1 DVD. Cripes. Who does that??? And why does that person hate me so much???
I don't like change, and I'm going to speak for each one of you when I say none of you do. Not basic, everyday changes -- the big ones. The ones that NO ONE can stop. The changes that come hurtling at us like Bret Michaels running toward a Greasy Blonde Wigs For Scuzzy Hair Metal Losers Who Are Obviously Bald and Also Probably Have ALL of the STDs Sale. The changes that walk up to you, say "Hi! How's it going? You look like you're having a super duper day!" and then hit you in the stomach with a fucking electrified crowbar with glass super-glued to it. Those changes are never ever good, never make anything better, and can hardly ever be fixed. They always hurt, they always break you and they always leave a scar. You can get all the help and all the support and all the hugs, and it's still going to blow. I have no words of wisdom or magical solution. I'm just an idiot who comes home after a bad day and lines up all her furniture so it runs parallel to the lines in the hardwood floor.
My way of dealing is a bit insane. I'm ok with that. It makes me feel better to put my stuff where it's supposed to be, so I'm going to keep doing it. You should, too. Find your stuff and put it where it's supposed to be. Maybe your stuff is your husband or your wife or your kids or boyfriend or girlfriend or dog or cat (even though cats suck) or a teddy bear or a sweater that still smells like your best friend or your gramma or whatever. Take your stuff and put it where it's supposed to be -- tight in your arms and as close to you as you can get it, as often as possible. It won't stop the bad changes that have come or will come, but you'll always know your stuff is where it's supposed to be, and that always makes me feel better :)
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