I am obsessed with cleanliness. As the spooky mayor from Buffy once said, “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”
My obsession has grown over the past few years. An armchair psychology major would probably tell you I need some sense of control over the things around me. Maybe that’s true or maybe I watched one too many Discovery Channel documentary about dust mites, who knows? Regardless, I end up throwing lots of things away (or donating or recycling them — I like the planet).
I do that metaphorically lots, too. I haven’t been to my hometown for three years since my parents moved away, and the world’s fate would have to be in the balance to convince me to go back to my awful, conservative Georgia birthplace ever again.
I’m bad at keeping up with old friends. I only talk to one high school friend regularly and rarely talk to my friends from my previous college. I can’t tell you the last time I talked to my brother. I have a terrible memory that somehow has gotten worse since I turned 21. My friends will recount whole stories that I don’t remember at all. Honestly, none of these things bother me at all. I don’t feel like a different person because I don’t have physical or emotional connections to my past.
My childhood wasn’t the best despite having great parents and a stable home. My peers weren’t kind to me for being different — I do remember being called baby killer for voting for Kerry in a class election in 2004 when I was nine and the time several of my friends slipped meat in my food after being a vegetarian for eight years.