I never knew I was anxious until my darling pointed it out. I have seen it portrayed on screen times without numbers and it wasn't like that with me, it wasn't me.
Yet whenever I hear my phone ring, I instinctively mute it, followed by an annoyed kissing of the teeth. But beneath that hot white unfathomable rage that washes over me momentarily, something keeps me from picking up the phone and answering ‘hello’ especially when I have a fair idea what the caller might want.
I think ‘why can't this fucker just text? Now I have to spend energy talking, the motherfucker’
On a regular day, I'm sure I have OCD. Granted, it is self diagnosed, but I'm the most self aware person I know. I hate when someone touches my things and doesn't replace it exactly how I kept it, I hate unfolded clothes on most days, somedays I hate cluster, and other days I ignore it's existence.
Things must be organised by size and not convenience, books and/or loose papers must line up perfectly with the wall or the edge of the desk, the obsession with note taking, to do lists and even numbers. My best servant and worst master.
I must swallow the water I'm drinking an even number of times, lather my body an even number of hand movements, decide to pause reading a manga for the day when I get to that even numbered page, count the number of times I chew a spoonful of food before swallowing, the number of times I brush my hair, the number of times I push the top of my perfume to get an even number of sprays, and I run my lip moisturiser six times on my lip.


Some days I follow routine like a crazy person, but other days, I just rot in my bed for hours, don't judge me, as abnormal as I am, I do some normal things (like you mediocre, vertical deficient [everyone is short in my sight. I'm over 190cm, go figure] peasants), disgusting as some might be
I complain too much and don't talk to God enough.