I Done Got Me Retweeted by Famous Psychologist, Peter Brown! Support a Nutter! Yippee!!!

[tweetmeme source=”OCDbloggergirl”] Look it! Look it! Look it! Show and Tell time! Shameless plug for myself! This famous psychologist from Australia retweeted me! Me of all people.  MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, hee hee! I’m the ‘shiznit’ now as Snoop Dogg would say! I know it’s crass to be bragging and junk, but you know how it is and all. Just once. Besides, if you can’t say how super mega nifty you are on your own blog, where else can you say it? It was the one on ‘How to be a Twit on Twitter ‘post!

The Most Idiotic Thing an Obsessive-Compulsive Could Ever Obsess Over; or, How to be a Twit on Twitter 101

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It is seldom I ever check to see if anyone addressed me on Twitter, but I did a few nights ago and a full state of panic ensued. You see, I’m about as popular on Twitter as the Bubonic Plague was in Europe, so once in a while will do to see if anyone ‘atted’ @lisaexclaimed. Truthfully, I’m generally too shy to initiate a conversation myself anyway. But that night I found a couple ‘ats’ at me from a couple of days ago. Uh oh.Basically folks were mildly miffed at the automated updates this stupid site updated my account





with every 4 hours. The site is free if you agree to let them post their ” Get more followers” advertisements and add certain followers. I wanted people to follow my blog, so thought what a great idea! Um no. Besides, most of the new followers I gained were people trying to sell me something, probably not blog readers. I tweeted back to the complainers my apology and vowed I would remove myself from the site  posthaste . 


But it didn’t feel good enough.

So I direct messaged one my contrition.  I’d hate to upset this fellow because he does the funniest tweets, though I seldom say anything, just read.

I tried to direct message the other dude, but he unfollowed me.  :0(

Still not good enough.

So I tweet to the world:

To everyone sorry about that  followers site, it was way out of hand…retweeting like every 4 hrs their damn site. Once again pardon about 2 hours ago via web

And yet, still that awful all is not well with the world feeling. Back to tweeting:

Ok, I know this is dumb, but still really feeling awful about that site. I didn’t think about them retweeting their stupid promo evry 4 hrs

Nope….Still feel bad:

I know I’m obsessing here, but upset about that stupid site, said it would get me more followers.i wanted more readers 4 my lame ass blog about 2 hours ago via web


Ok, gonna stop worrying about it, I just don’t want everyone mad at me. It’s my friggin’ OCD eating my brain about 2 hours ago via web

And then…

Fuck an A. It’s still tweeting about getting more followers. Changing my password. Maybe that’ll stop it 3 minutes ago via web

And Firefox flagged the site as a phishing sight, though it could be a  false  report I guess. Joy. To be fair I read that it would update every 4 hours , but it didn’t register just how old that would get, especially since I don’t update my every move, though I totally think people would be interested in me going outside to get the mail or sitting in my living room.

Every now and then, however, I miss good fodder for the Twitter, little vignettes of what weird-ass people my mom and I are. For instance, the other day my mom came into my room holding a styrofoam cup with her hand on top of the rim. She had been walking down the hall of our apartment building. “Look what I found clinging to the wall out in the hall! I hope he hasn’t got into some poison. “

I looked and gushed my appreciation. “Awwwwwww! I love those!” Now, a normal person when asked which insect is her favorite would say butterfly, ladybug, or dragonfly…..All wonderful critters, mind you, but my favorite is the praying mantis.  Look at those big, endearing extraterrestrial eyes,  how she sways her giant legs. She’s a real character, but she just might bite off your head if she’s hungry (like Sarah Palin or a televangelist). Yum!


Then my mom took the mantis outside and tried to find her a decent spot somewhere the cats wouldn’t get her. Tweeted, all that condensed would sound like ” Mom found a praying mantis, showed me in a styrofoam cup, then let it go.” Interesting stuff!

The day after my Twitter meltdown, the twitterer I direct messaged , told me “Nothing to be sorry about, my dear. You’re awesome!” He is so cool. My online friend, Sandra,  also sent me kind words of comfort, before I heard back from Direct Message Guy, which eased my nerves quite a bit. 🙂

(Mantis photo taken from bestpicuregallery.com w/o permission!)

31DBBB Day 1: Write an Elevator Pitch

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Your humble blogger  decided to take the  SITS Girls Problogger Challenge on Blogfrog.com. I’m late as always, but better late then never….and I  can’t afford the e-book they’re plugging. For about $15.00, I can learn world domination in the blogging world and gain an extra reader or two. But since it’s the end of the month, alas, I must remain in obscurity and somehow stay afloat on my Community College French Fries Degree.  But I do have a library book out on blogging now, a classic…..from 2002.  So they didn’t have Twitter or electricity back then, but the author seems very positive about her blogging experience.

My first mission is writing a short and a longer “elevator pitch,” something that’ll make the masses flock to my blog like ants to molasses or something. Dang, what can I write about this little hobby of mine that my mom and my best friend don’t get at all?  I’m obsessed with tapping my brain for whatever guts and matter that will leak out into this online bucket. The gunk runs slow into this bucket because  my thoughts are going too fast that they get clogged in the spigot and I must do something else because it’s all too much to write in 1000 words or less. I feel it must all get out, but my attention wavers very easily, always has. Jump here, there, what else should I be doing and am I doing it just right? Every time I click “publish,” I feel relieved and accomplished at the same time. Plus, heck, I have a terrible urge to confess my life, so there you go.  Then writing also helps me with my loneliness and anxiety, and  I’d like to think if other weird people come across this junk,. they’ll feel better too.

So let’s do this pitch thing already. I am rather sold on “OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings.” It was a recent addition. Sort of hoping the search engines would catch my blog and reel it in on some soul looking for OCD stuff, hence setting forth my twisted plot to  dominate the anxiety disorder blogs and be Head Head-Case. Ain’t working yet. I’m more stuck being the bathroom attendant in the blogosphere than Queen OCD, but thank heavens for the 31 DBBB challenge!

Anyway, if I were to change my ‘elevator pitch’ it would be something like – OCDbloggergirl: A Blog on OCD and Life  Fueled by a  Confessing Compulsion.

Well, it’s the truth.  Girlfriend likes….Nay, needs, to tell someone, especially if she’s feeling guilty, which is about 75% of the time. So might as well amuse somebody with it. Plus,  I just really like to write, and what subject do I know best? Myself. Yay!  But I think “OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings” best describes this blog.  ‘Cause my life is dominated by my perspective and actions as a person with OCD. But my life isn’t all about obsessive-compulsive disorder, so the other parts of my weird self and the world around me puts the ‘Life’ part in my tagline. ‘Other Misunderstandings’ just refers to everything I cough up, because the world itself is often a mystery.

Which do you prefer, if I might ask, on the tagline/ pitch?

OK, now for the bigger “Elevator Pitch” I’m supposed to write. It will be a sort of mission statement:

OCDbloggergirl: OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings is a blog chronicling the life of  a 32 year-old woman dealing with obsessive-compulsive disorder,  an anxiety disorder affecting about 2% percent of the population. The author wishes to expose what life is like with a mental illness many don’t understand and the struggles of just being different in general. By blogging about her unusual way of life and whatever else comes to her mind, the author hopes to help those people who consider themselves marginalized by society to feel less alone with their struggles. The blog’s other goal is to reach an audience who will actually read the author’s musings for sheer entertainment value and to maybe even elicit a laugh or two.


St. Joan Ran Through ‘The Dialectizer’

This link I found through my friend,   http://catthebeatnik.wordpress.com/ :   http://www.rinkworks.com/dialect/, when she tweeted it yesterday: – The Dialectizer! I was so amused, I decided to share an excerpt from the ‘La Douche Terrible’ post in several translations from The Dialectizer. Here ya go

The Original

“Want a piece of me? Here I come!….Non!!! Oops, there I went. Ouch! I want mon maman, s’il vous plait.”

Going to be honest here. The person I defended has always been cordial to me. That’s reason one.   Reason two, I genuinely like his writings and was terribly sorry anyone made  him feel bad. Reason three, however, definitely goes to Team OCD. I feel a need to atone for whatever reason made him unsubscibe from my blog. Did I offend him? What did he find objectionable about my writing, or me for that matter?  Was it ’cause I’m mental? I cuss like a dockside prostitute in my writing? My writing is lacking? I’m boring? My writing is too long?

Reminds me of  when I was in college.  To pass expository writing, you had to have an essay examined by 3 teachers and if 2 out of 3 passed you, you passed the class.  I  passed by 2 out of 3, but did I care? I was too busy wondering why the enigmatic third teacher failed me.

Rendered Into Redneck

“Want a piece of me? Hyar ah come!….Non! Fry mah hide!! Fry mah hide!! Fry mah hide! Oops, thar ah went. Ouch! Fry mah hide! ah’s hankerin’ mon maman, s’il vous plait.”

Gwine t’be honess har. Th’ varmint ah defended has allus been co’dial t’me. Thet’s reason one.   Reason two, ah junuinely like his writin’s an’ was terribly so’ry ennyone made  him feel bad, cuss it all t’ tarnation. Reason three, howevah, definitely goes t’Team OCD. ah feel a need t’atone fo’ whutevah reason made him unsubscibe fum mah blog, acco’din’ t’ th’ code o’ th’ heells! Did ah offend him? Whut in tarnation did he find objeckshunable about mah writin’, o’ me fo’ thet matter?  Was it ’cuz I’m mental? ah cuss like a dockside prosteetoote in mah writin’? Mah writin’ is lackin’? I’m bo’in’? Mah writin’ is too long?

Reminds me of  when ah was in college.  To pass exposito’y writin’, yo’ had t’have an essay examined by 3 skoo marms an’ eff’n 2 outta 3 passed yo’, yo’ passed th’ class.  ah  passed by 2 outta 3, but did ah care? ah was too busy wonnerin’ whuffo’ th’ enigmatic third skoo marm failed me.

Rendered Into Jive

“Want some piece uh me? Here ah’ come! Right on!….Non! Preach it loud, bruddah!! Right on! Oops, dere ah’ went. Man! Ouch! Right on! ah’ wants’ mon maman, s’il vous plait. Man!”

Goin’ t’be honest here. De sucka’ ah’ defended gots always been co’dial t’me. Dat’s reason one.   Reason two, ah’ genuinely likes his writin’s and wuz terribly so’ry any sucka made  him feel baaaad. Reason dree, however, definitely goes t’Team OCD. ah’ feel some need t’atone fo’ whuteva’ reason made him unsubscibe fum mah’ blog. What it is, Mama! Did ah’ offend him? Whut dun did he find objecshunable about mah’ writin’, o’ me fo’ dat matter?  Wuz it ’cause I’m mental? ah’ cuss likes some dockside prostitute in mah’ writin’? Mah’ writin’ be lackin’? I’m bo’in’? Mah’ writin’ be too long?

Reminds me uh  when ah’ wuz in college.  To pass ‘esposito’y writin’, ya’ had t’have an essay ‘esamined by 3 head homeboys and if 2 out uh 3 passed ya’, ya’ passed da damn class.  I  passed by 2 out uh 3, but dun did ah’ care? ah’ wuz too busy wonderin’ why de enigmatic dird head homeboy failed me.

Rendered Into Cockney

“Want a piece of me, isit?Here I come! Blimey!….Non!! Honest guv!! Oi! Oops, there I went. I’ll get out me spoons. Ouch! Honest guv! I want mon maman, right, s’il vous plait.”

Gonna be ‘onest ‘ere. The geezer I defended ‘as always been cordial ter me. That’s reason one.   Reason two, I genuinely like ‘is writings and were terribly sorry any fairy made  him feel bad. Reason free, however, definitely goes ter Team OCD. I feel a need ter atone for wotever reason made ‘im unsubscibe from me blog. Did I offend ‘im, eh? Wot did ‘e find objectionable about me writin’, or me for that matter?  Were it ’cause I’m mental, eh, squire? I cuss like a dockside prostitute in me writin’, isit?Me writin’ is lackin’, isit?I’m borin’? Me writin’ is too long, mate?

Reminds me of  wen I were in college.  To pass expository writin’, right, yer ‘ad ter have an essay examined by 3 teachers and if 2 out of 3 passed yer, right, yer passed the bloody class.  I  passed by 2 out of 3, right, but did I care, isit?I were too busy wonderin’ why the enigmatic fird teacher failed me.

Rendered Into Elmer Fudd

“Want a piece of me? Hewe I come!….Non!!! Oops, thewe I went. Ouch! I want mon maman, s’iw vous pwait.”

Going to be honest hewe. De pewson I defended has awways been cowdiaw to me. Dat’s weason one.   Weason two, I genuinewy wike his wwitings and was tewwibwy sowwy anyone made  him feew bad. Weason thwee, howevew, definitewy goes to Team OCD. I feew a need to atone fow whatevew weason made him unsubscibe fwom my bwog. Did I offend him? What did he find objectionabwe about my wwiting, ow me fow that mattew?  Was it ’cause I’m mentaw? I cuss wike a dockside pwostitute in my wwiting? My wwiting is wacking? I’m bowing? My wwiting is too wong?

Weminds me of  when I was in cowwege.  To pass expositowy wwiting, you had to have an essay examined by 3 teachews and if 2 out of 3 passed you, you passed the cwass. Oh, dat scwewy wabbit!  I  passed by 2 out of 3, but did I cawe? I was too busy wondewing why the enigmatic thiwd teachew faiwed me.

Rendered Into Swedish Chef

“Vunt a peeece-a ooff me-a? Here-a I cume-a!….Nun!!! Ooups, zeere-a I vent. Um de hur de hur de hur. Ooooch! I vunt mun memun, s’eel fuoos pleeet. Um de hur de hur de hur.”

Gueeng tu be-a hunest here-a. Zee persun I deffended hes elveys beee curdeeel tu me-a. Thet’s reesun oone-a.   Reesun tvu, I genooeenely leeke-a hees vreetings und ves terreebly surry unyune-a mede-a  heem feel bed. Bork bork bork! Reesun three-a, hooefer, deffeenitely gues tu Teem OoCD. I feel a need tu etune-a fur vhetefer reesun mede-a heem unsoobsceebe-a frum my blug. Deed I ooffffend heem? Vhet deed he-a feend oobjecshuneble-a ebuoot my vreeting, oor me-a fur thet metter?  Ves it ’coose-a I’m mentel? I cooss leeke-a a duckseede-a prusteetoote-a in my vreeting? My vreeting is leckeeng? I’m bureeng? My vreeting is tuu lung?

Remeends me-a ooff  vhee I ves in cullege-a.  Tu pess ixpuseetury vreeting, yuoo hed tu hefe-a un issey ixemeened by 3 teechers und iff 2 oooot ooff 3 pessed yuoo, yuoo pessed zee cless. Um gesh dee bork, bork!  I  pessed by 2 oooot ooff 3, boot deed I cere-a? I ves tuu boosy vundereeng vhy zee ineegmetic thurd teecher feeeled me-a.

Rendered Into Moron

“Want a piece of me, duh…uh…? Hehe I come! Huh huh!….Non! Doihh, COOL!! Doihh, COOL!! Doihh, COOL! Oops, duuhhhh, dehe I webuhnt. Um uh. Ouch! Doihh, COOL! I want mon maman, s’il bous plait.”

Goigg t’ be honest hehe. Duh.De pehson I defendid has allays been cordial t’ me. Dat’s reason one.   Reason two, I genuine like his writiggs ‘n was tehrib sorry anyone made  him feel bad. Reason dree, uh uh uh, duh, howebeh, definite goes t’ Team OCD. I feel a neid to atone f’ whatebeh reason made him unsubscibe from my blog. Did I offend him, duh…uh…? What did he find obbuhjeckionaggle bou’ my writigg, or me f’ dat matteh, duh…uh…?  Was it ’cuz I’m minal, duh…uh…? I cuss like a dockside prostititite in my writigg, duh…uh…? My writigg is lackigg, duh…uh…? I’m borigg, duh…uh…? My writigg is too long, duh…uh…?

Reminds me of  when I was in college.  T’ pass expository writigg, you had t’ habe an essay examinid by 3 teachehs ‘n if 2 out of 3 passid you, you passid the, errr, class, GEEEHEEHEEE. I  passid by 2 out of 3, but did I care, duh…uh…? I was too biddy wondehigg errrr, why the, uh, enigmatic dird teacheh failid me.

Rendered Into Hacker

“want a peice of me!?!?!???!?!?!?!? olloloo…. here i coMe!!!!!!!!!!!!!1~~~~~~ THEIR ISS A RATIO DONT RIP3 ME OFF CZU Y0U SUC ~~~~~~ .. i own joo acuse you are 7ame!!!!!!!!!!1~~~ .. LOLOLOLOL NOn!!!!!!!!!!!!!~ 0ops, there i went ouch!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11~ i want mon mamna, s’i7 vous plait/ “

oging to be honeSt hare rthe 7aMMeR i edfe|\|ded ahs lawaYs been corDial to me ht4t’s rason one,,,   REASOJ TW, I G3NNUIELY LIKE HIS WRITINGD AND WAZ TARRILBY SRORY ANYONE MADE  HMI FEE7 AB YOU SUX0R TREASON TRHWEE, HOWEVER, DEDFINITlY GOEAS TO TREAM 0CD i feel an weed t0 atone fr0 wh*ver re4so nmad3 him uNsubscibE frfom my blog,,, HAX0R YUOUUUUUU DID I OFFEND HIM?????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?????????? WHA TDID HE FIND OBJEcTIOJNaBLE ABOUT M YWIRTING, OR M EFR OTHAT M4TTAR????????????? olololololololol~~~ OLOLOLOLOLOLOL…  \\\\////\\\\////AS IT ’CUZ I’M MENT4L?!?!?!?!?!?!?? i cuss like a doX0rsid3 prostitute 1n my writing?????????!!!!!!!!!!????? my writying is laX0r1ng????????? LLOLOLOLLO~~ i’m borin??????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!????????? LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL~ gmy Writing is too long???????!!!!!!????????????? AHCK THE PLAN|\|AT

R3MIND SME OF� �WHEN 1 WAZ I NCOLLEGE � tO pass expositroy writing, you had to ahve an essay wxamined by 3 techers and if 2 out of 3 psased yoU, you passed thje cl4ss!!!!!!!111~~~~~~  I  PASsED BY 2 OUT 0F 3, BUT DIDI CR!?!?!?!?!????!?!? 1W AS TOO BUSY WONDARNIG WHY TJ ENIGMATIC THIRD TEAChAQR FAiLED ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111

A Soap Opera

I planned to spend the day at the pool. Instead I took a nap. That’s what I do when thrown off-kilter. Sometimes I won’t be able to re-adjust without a total restart, which is a nap and a perfection prayer. Then clean slate. Try again not to fuck everything up.

I did everything so right this morning, not cursing and getting upset when I at first couldn’t find a book I sold on Amazon. It was after I gave the cats  their flea control that trouble brewed.

“Remember to wash your hands good afterward,” Mom advised, “because it’s poison.”

OK, no problem, right? So I rub my left hand around the bar of soap and wash my hands by rubbing them together a few seconds under the cool water. I’m not too concerned when it comes to me, but I practically prep for surgery if I’m preparing something for someone lest I contaminate her or him. This is when Mommie Dearest comes in and cries, “NO WIRE HANGERS EVER!!!”

Well, actually she said, “That’s not washing! You just run your hands under water and call it washing.”

That did it.  From neutral to enraged in .5 seconds. I soap again and wash. Angry. Angry. ANGRY.

Afterward, gritting my already evenly ground teeth, I asked her if she saw me use the soap. I don’t always just rinse my hands under water. In fact, I often ritualize washing after the bathroom, preferably with liquid soap. I count to 30 or recite the Happy Birthday song a couple of times in my head, thank you very much.

I was so angry! And when she apologized it was in that annoyed martyr voice she does when she is completely frustrated with me.  Her voice dips down low and increases with each sorry. “I’m sorry….I’m sorryyy….I’m SORRY!” Needless to say it’s hard to talk to her about why I’m angry, and thinking about it now renews my anger a bit.

I gave into my feelings, altering from states of intense anger to utter hopelessness. My thoughts were in this vein: I fucking can’t do anything right. I always, always end with fucking things up. I might as well just drop dead I’m so fucking useless. I can’t even wash my hands the right way.

But I felt much better after that nap, my prayer, my assurance to myself that this time I won’t mess up some way.  I ended up at the pool after my “re-perfecting” was done.  I walked past a boy, perhaps around 9 years-old, and he asked me to use my goggles.  Pollyanna said, “Sure, as long as you give them back when you’re done.” He must never have got done with them, my $6.00 impermeable goggles. Funny, I was only somewhat annoyed by this. At least they fixed the pool filter, so my eyes will be tolerant again of the chlorine level in the water. I want my freaking goggles back though, little bastard, because I can see things better with them on, and because you’re old enough to know better than to steal. Club Ghetto/Trailer Park  strikes again!

My mom was kinda mad, though, that someone stole from me….

(Photos snatched from Photobucket and Flickr w/o permission.)

Faux Pas a le Wanker et La Douche Terrible du Fail Epic d’ Defense


This post  was started last night, before being assured people don’t think I think they’re wankers, but  I like the title and was almost done with the post, so here it is…

.Oops, went and offended folks. Meant well. But did it anyway.  They seem to think I think they’re wankers and now they think I’m a douche no doubt. I feel reallyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy bad.

La Douche Terrible feels culpable if someone she knows is getting beat up, and well, La Douche Terrible  made terrible  douchiness on le blog of other bloggers and made le fail epic at defending someone. La Douche Terrible  decided she was Jeanne ‘d le Fucking Arc, mounted her white steed, and chargeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Et hit a wall. Le ouch.  Fin.

"Want a piece of me? Here I come!....Non!!! Oops, there I went. Ouch! I want mon maman, s'il vous plait."

Going to be honest here. The person I defended has always been cordial to me. That’s reason one.   Reason two, I genuinely like his writings and was terribly sorry anyone made  him feel bad. Reason three, however, definitely goes to Team OCD. I feel a need to atone for whatever reason made him unsubscibe from my blog. Did I offend him? What did he find objectionable about my writing, or me for that matter?  Was it ’cause I’m mental? I cuss like a dockside prostitute in my writing? My writing is lacking? I’m boring? My writing is too long?

Reminds me of  when I was in college.  To pass expository writing, you had to have an essay examined by 3 teachers and if 2 out of 3 passed you, you passed the class.  I  passed by 2 out of 3, but did I care? I was too busy wondering why the enigmatic third teacher failed me. I probably could easily tell you why  now if I saw it, but I don’t have it and I don’t even remember what the essay was about, just that it was timed and they gave you the topic. I’m lousy at anything timed,  deadlines, etc. I passed classes like geology and math by the teachers liking me….I was less socially anxious in those days. I was good at logic I remember, but numbers and I are bitter enemies.  I think  my geology paper was on tsunamis or something like that and my teacher liked it because I wrote it in a “creative” way, replete with the word, “treatise” in the title, and he never gave it back to me. My geology teacher and I had a similar outlook on life and he sort of adopted me…..Dude knew what I was thinking most of the time, plus sort of looked out for me because he knew I was a tad more delicate than my peers. To this day, I believe he was the only person who really “got me.”

My math teacher was a crotchety older man and this woman in class  wanted to get him fired. I knew she was a nasty person, a slithery snake of  a woman with fire engine red hair.  And she latched onto me. I could sense she had a personality disorder , I just knew it.  She approached me, got me to sit with her near the elevator and told me what she planned. I forget her exact words  but she would talk about how basically she and I were smarter than everyone else, more artistic.  You and me,  us against them, we’re better than they are was the jist of her conversation. ” I’ve gone to a university, and I know how a class is supposed to be.”  Well, why are you at a community college,  I wanted to ask, but she was around 50 years of age, so perhaps she returned to school.  She would ask me if I know what such and such meant a couple of times.  “Yes,” I replied. ” That’s because you’re smart. ” And she told me how she was going to talk to the dean and get the man fired. Now may it be said I didn’t particularly love said math teacher, but get him fired? I knew it wasn’t because I was smarter, more likely I could be easily manipulated. I look kind of dumb, my voice is child-like,  and a bit on the super gullible side, but I wasn’t quite as ignorant as she thought.

I rushed to my geology teacher almost in in tears and let him know the nefarious plot against his fellow professor just because she didn’t like him. I thought if I let her do it and so unfairly, plus his age might be against him finding another teaching job, it would all be my fault. So my geology professor warned him of psycho-broad and to watch out. I couldn’t warn him myself, no way! So thank God for my geology professor, my protector.

Well, the psycho-broad, was given to towards thinking herself above everyone and anyone, the perfect narcissist. I wish they could bottle that sort of self-confidence and give me a prescription for the amount in her pinky, but it was this superiority that proved to be her downfall. Psycho-Broad marched herself to the dean’s office and when asked if she had an appointment, she told the receptionist she was a friend of his. Needless to say, the dean was not amused. They had words and in the end she was asked to leave the college for good. How many people can brag that they got expelled from a community college? Obviously  she could. The dean perhaps had been appraised of the situation beforehand, but anyway she now was gone and I got thanked by my math teacher. No one thought bad of me. I think  even other students disliked her. I think I did the right thing, I hope. I didn’t want anyone to get in trouble.

I really did try in that math class, but I still wonder if my grade was pushed up a couple points from D to C.

(Image above was taken from nndb.com w/o permission)

The Things That I Obsess Over the Most; or Let’s See How Howard Hughes-ish a Gal Can Be

This is one of those posts unburdening myself because I’m anxious, so probably won’t be the best post ever, but oh well. Here is a list of things I fear:

1. My worst fear is harming someone. I’m not one of those obsessive-compulsives who thinks she’ll kill someone somehow -much. Though butcher knives and guns in the house would scare me if we had them, because I’d imagine going crazy and doing everything I would never ever want to do. I am aware that is silly, I’m not suddenly going to do anything totally against everything I believe, but you see all these people who go nuts on TV and it’s enough to send me into a terror. I usually know I’m not going to go  crazy, that it is OCD trying to upset me. More real in my mind is the fear of causing harm by accident. What if I ran over someone someday? What if I   could save someone and somehow I don’t ? It’ll be my fault.

The obsession I worry the most about though is my fear of causing offense or hurting someone’s feelings. Most of the  time it’s all upstairs, but it scares the hell out of me. You’d think  with everything going on in the world I could find something better to panic over, but that scares me. Probably one of the roots of my social anxiety issue is this fear. Online, offline, in the air and under the sea I’ve done someone wrong I fear. I’m never good enough. I even fear that bad phrases will rush out of my mouth or I’ll write something awful and it will be…..well….awful, you know? Though I don’t have Tourette’s, unless you count that stupid brain puke flowing in a stream throughout my brain. I’m scared I’ve upset someone, and I wouldn’t deliberately, and now I don’t what to do……..I think I’m being irrational, but can’t help it.

My therapist says it’s because I’m a kind person that I have all this stuff go through my head. Why I worry about others, let others take advantage of me…etc. It makes me really wish I had that “F.U., buddy” mentality so charming among people. I am way too sensitive. I cry like a wuss if someone is nasty to me lots of the time. Can’t watch certain things on TV because it upsets me too much. I didn’t cry the other day, but since they  did one of those re-enactments of the events of this local murder victim on a cable show my friend and I watched at her house, I had the unpleasant feeling of  feeling what he was feeling a bit. Not good. Not good at all. If they had just said his body had been found all beat up, showed some blood, etc. I wouldn’t have been so upset, but they showed what they did to him before he died, the anticipation of death he must have felt. It was too real. Then on the local news they interviewed his mom who watched the program. Ugh. I was afraid she was watching it, and the fact that I’ve been to the places in the story just weirded me out. 

 I’ve been too sickeningly sensitive since I was in my middle teens and it’s a curse. Trust  me.

2. My mother’s death. I am afraid my mom will die some awful way. I’m afraid she’ll die in a car wreck, or be murdered, or die of a disease. And if i survive her death, that I won’t be able to bury or cremate her. It happened to us when my grandmother died and without help we wouldn’t have been able to bury her.  I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to afford a roof over my head, though my best friend would let me live with her permanently…..but I’m afraid we wouldn’t get  along living together because we are pretty different in a lot of ways and I’d want to live alone I think. If my mother died the only person who will ever love me unconditionally will be dead. Though in a way my best friend and I have never had a difference so bad we’d walk away from one another forever.

3. I’m never going to be loved.

4. I’m going to die alone and without setting the slightest mark that I was ever here in the first place.

5. T he flaws on my face. I scour my face for hair everyday and spend a significant time feeling for  it, thank you  Paxil that stopped my period for a couple years (a rare side effect that happens in like 1 in 10,000 people) . You can’t see  them much,  but I feel and pull to the point I’m sore and bleeding. Heck , for a little while I was shaving myself three times a day until Mom got onto me. If I imagine a man kissing me, the first thought will be of my face, even before thinking of my weight. One of these days I’m going to the laser people, so I can worry about other flaws.

6. That hell is real and I will be expected there.

7. That I will be accused of something and won’t be able to prove I didn’t do it.

8. That I have a hidden disease that will be fatal, but am too afraid  my doctor will tell me I have a disease…..so I just avoid going to the doctor and will not go unless I’m dying. My stomach hurts and I secretly wonder if  it’s from radiation off my netbook.

9. I’m sometimes afraid if I’m alone in public  I’ll panic, faint, and/or die. Or say the wrong thing.

10. I’m afraid I’m going to be attacked because I’m not vigilant 100 % of the time….that isn’t entirely irrational here at Shitzville Apartments trust me.

11.  I’m afraid something upset me when I was 4, but  I don’t quite remember. It’s probably  nothing. I’ll explain sometime, but it isn’t really anything all that bad.  But it probably did mess with my mind a little if it’s even true.

Anyway, I feel better. Though I’m still a bit worried. I will try to write  a better post when I am more myself.


http://www.ocfoundation.org/whatisocd.aspx if you want to know more  about OCD ‘n junk.

Dwarf Essay in Praise of the USA I Wrote July 5th, Published Only Now!!!

I began this post 4th of July weekend. I meant to make it into a What I Did on the 4th of July post, but only got a little bit done and set it aside.  Now I’m posting it because it’s a dwarfed essay or something, and I re-read it and decided, what the hell I’ll post it! So here it is until I can bang out something better.

My favorite holiday is Independence Day. I wouldn’t venture to say I’m the most patriotic American ever, my flag waving furiously as I chant “USA! USA!” But neither am I too down on my country either. In fact, I think America is the greatest country in the world, not that I’ve ever been out of the United States, or even out of the southern states, but yeah, USA is great! Canada may be Valhalla for all I know, China may be a swell place to vacation or raise your allotted one child, but all I know is I’m proud to be an American!

Yeah, we stole America, committed Genocide against Native Americans, had slavery and other blights to our history we’ll sweep under the carpet for now. Somehow, though, America transcends its checkered past and strives onward. I feel we still have many flaws, and in truth I suppose most people in other countries think their nations are the best, too. Even the majority of Mexican illegal aliens  appear to love their birth country best, even though they starved there.

We can boast a big influence on other countries. We were big players in women’s rights, we made government safety nets so that many people don’t starve to death during difficult times, our meritocracy gives hope to many to strive to be the best Horatio Algers they can be, and our civil rights/liberties are influential all over the world. We may be fat and unhealthy, but  thank heavens we live in a country where our fat isn’t bloat.

Pictures Taken on the Ferry Coming Home from the Parade

Julia Child, Donna Reed, and Martha Stewart Wept

Okay, I’m going to let you in on a little secret or two. My first secret is I have a terrible temper. It just has to be set off in the right way. People can do things to me all the time, all the time, and I don’t get mad. I’m just there. I either feel sad or feel I deserve it or feel mad at myself at what normal folks would go Mike Tyson over. There is one person though who really gets me, sends me into a total rage. My mother, because it’s my mother who is the closest to me and she observes and she comments. Then I fly into a rage, usually over trivial things. I hate being reminded I’m not perfect, though it seldom is my mother’s  intention to make me feel bad. I want to please her ALL THE TIME. Please my friends ALL THE TIME. And I always fail, which throws me into a rage. All I know is I am so angry I want and do hit myself. I try not to do it in front of people because it is a pretty crazy compulsion. And the funny thing is I don’t believe in hitting, but my standards towards myself on the other hand….

It is nothing I’m proud of and I would on no terms suggest anyone try it out. I’m not the first wacko with a need to punish herself and will not be the last. All the old saints used to do that stuff, but I’m not Catholic, just fucked. A fist to the side of my head, not hard enough to jangle my brains,  just enough to smart a little. The arms. My thighs. I never leave a mark, just enough to hurt a little. My fists banging against a hard surface like the recalcitrant child I am. It purges anger, an emotion I loathe and fear, and this awful frustration.  Frustration isn’t just an emotion. I feel it creeping around in my body, up around the eyes, in my arms, stomach, and legs. Mental Midget Deluxe.

Then if I can, I take a nap, hoping that I can do things exactly the right way the next time I wake-up. I won’t say anything wrong and I will do everything right. EVERYTHING!!!

Pollyanna would say, Of course you can. Everything will be glad, happy, happy, daisies and kittens!!!!

Nervous Nelly would say, Sure, Genius. Afterall, you’re an understudy for Jesus Christ.

Second secret time, and can any secret be more shameful than the last one? Why yesssssssss!

My therapist is trying to get me to do things called “life skills.” Rendered into English, that means, “Get off your lazy ass and try to learn how to cook. You ain’t gonna poison no one or die from exertion. While you’re at it, do your own damn laundry.” Anywho, my therapist believes, and rightly so, that the more independence I gain from my Mom the more my little self-esteem issue is going to improve and that I will be less afraid of my mother dying. But I also think my mom is afraid of being alone, but I wouldn’t ever move away from her. Afterall, the moment I moved out, I’d be sure she’d take that moment to up and die and somehow it would be my fault. Or I’d die. Anyway, someone would definitely kick the can.

So now to the part where the little men in white coats and butterfly nets should have been called out in their little white van. The shit hit the fan about the time I decided I was Julia Child. What is really quick to make, least likely to give someone food poisoning, and I have the least likelihood of totally screwing up? Tuna fish sandwiches! But not really trusting my memory, I hit Google. I search for a simple recipe I might follow. I wade through a couple, one even advocating putting apple slices in the tuna. Apple slices?! Either she’s pregnant or it’s true some real crazy-assed people use the internet. I finally settle on the easiest I could find.

First step, find a pot and a bowl. Check and check after a little hunting.

Second, the eggs. Boil 2 of them says recipe. I open the carton. A couple have tiny cracks. I avoid those in case it might cause a plague to break out if they were used, who knows? I find 2 that seem perfectly sound and put them on to boil.

Third, this step is vital, find the tuna! Where the hell did I put it the other day when putting the groceries away? Ah, yes! Behind my stash of Chef Boyardee. First can I pull out is chunk light, but that’s what we use to bribe the cats to leave us alone when Mom is preparing white albacore. But only Oscar the black tabby is around now and I hate to use the leave-me-be can of tuna on only one cat. “I’ll let you have the juice,” I promise our little connoisseur of all foods human.

Fourth, can opener. You’d think they’d make everything with a pull up ring to open the can with, but  alas, no. We have a manual one only now because we just never bothered to buy a new electric one after our old one  croaked. I think I have the lid cut through, but it turns out I only have cut through around 75% of the can. Close enough.

Fifth and sixth steps, dodge and placate the cat. Oscar is on the counter ready to pounce. “Wait,” I demand and with one hand holding the can, the other I sit Oscar back on the floor. With a blink of an eye Oscar is once again on the counter as though he never left. “Oscar-Dammit!” I cry his alternate name. It appears Oscar will be remaining on the counter. I take the can, grab a cereal bowl, and drain the water into it, plus add a small bit of tuna for his majesty.

Seventh, add shredded cheese. Cheese?  Well, not so far-fetched really since I always order cheese on my tuna sub at Subway.  But then I add mustard too, so take my tastes for what you will. Will my mother totally freak upon seeing bits of American cheese in the tuna? Next option: parmesan. Now that’s about as “shredded” as it gets, baby, and if used sparingly, undetectable. And I can say I followed the recipe to the best of my ability. Win-win. Feeling a bit like the mother in Flowers in the Attic adding a secret ingredient to the food, I sprinkle the cheese in the tuna. The only difference in me and the evil mother in Flowers in the Attic, is my secret ingredient is Kraft parmesan, not arsenic.

Eighth, add mayo from a half empty (not half full because optimism is sooo overrated) squirt bottle, all the while being on the look-out for an ambush by a cat.

Ninth, ain’t got no celery. Next.

Tenth, sweet pickles. I start with a steak knife trying to chop the slices fine,  but end up deciding to later find some other chopping implement lest I cut myself.

Eleventh, find an onion.

Twelfth, get totally enraged and hand the whole thing over to my mother, who seems to think I can’t do anything right….at least that’s what my mind is saying.

Okay, so my mom walks into the kitchen and I ask where the onion is, that I’m making tuna.

“Oh, I’ll do it,” says Mama. Already I’m feeling flustered. I hear it as “You know you can’t do that.”

She then lets me know two eggs weren’t needed, just one. I didn’t put enough mayonnaise. Did I even rinse off the tuna after I drained it? Hello?! I’m supposed to be the OCD Blogger Girl, not my mom!  The apple fell from the tree not too far away. And this was one angry apple by now and getting redder by the second. Let me say this though, I generally defer to people, knowing I’m not the shiniest apple in the batch, and because I don’t have to ritualize things if someone tells me exactly how to do something. BUT, if I’m already doing something and decided how I will do it, that’s when I get upset. And I got upset.

Dondee of Going to the Vet Fame & Oscar Dammit