Mail Call

I wanted to get my mail today. I only check every week or two, because no news is good news, right?

It isn’t just the mail. I feel a certain existential dread when checking my voicemail. I think of all the bad  scenarios that someone could leave on voicemail. Something  with my apartment complex or my social worker.

I’ve taken to  checking my front door twice a day for something from the apartment complex. I know my neighbors must hear me open the door and quickly shut it again. They must either think I’m the nosiest bitch in the world or that I’m totally nuts. Knowing that one of the maintenance guys now lives across the hall exacerbates everything. He tries to be nice when we see each other, and I try to reciprocate to the best of my ability, which ain’t so great. Looking in someone’s eyes is like looking directly at the sun. Smiling makes me self-conscious because I feel like my lips clamp together paralyzed, and knowing my teeth are ground down from years of bruxism, I just can’t. I imagine my neighbors think I’m autistic, slow, and may know I’m a cat lady.

But yes, I went to get my mail…and my mail key wasn’t on my fob. Panic set in. I will have to go to the office on Monday. First, I’ll ask if anyone turned in a key, and then, heaven forbid, ask for another. Logically, I know I shouldn’t feel like the world is about to end when I have to venture there for something, but I see those times as dangerous. Potential questions asked, complaints foisted on me, as though reminding them of my presence is enough to make me homeless. I got a note from my shrink with some shit about my friend needing to park by my building in order to help me about a month ago. I have yet to turn in said note, the wages of playing the tard card so my friend wouldn’t have to walk a long distance from the dark visitors’ parking lot and potentially get her car broke into at night. Maybe I’ll have the courage to give it to the assistant manager to keep that vulture towing guy off her car. Wish me luck!

Twitching

My right arm just below my shoulder is pulsating off and on as though it is a separate being. For some reason, the occasional twitches and pulsations of my body are fascinating to me. I think it’s my nerves. Every few seconds comes the twitch, which lasts for a few more seconds. The pulsing is so fast, I can’t count how many times it pulsates. What a thrill.

Sometimes it’s my right eye, rapid like a bird beating her wings. Then I must capture it in the mirror or with my camera, my own private freak show. Fortunately, this twitching happens infrequent enough to be amusing to me and even calming. Look I’m still alive! There’s my brain misfiring again.

Starting in high school, I noticed in my left palm a vein that I could watch pulsate if I rested my hand just so on my desk. This must’ve seemed like a swell parlor trick to me because covertly watching my vein pulse also calmed me.

I twitch my nose also, but this is voluntary. But I’m so used to doing it that it’s more I have to consciously stop myself from doing it. It’s like twiddling your thumbs, except it’s my freaking nose. I also move my mouth too. Match.com here I come!

Happy New Year!

At the beginning of each new year, at 12:00 AM sharp, I declare psychological warfare on myself. This will be the year of PERFECT ME. NO MISTAKES. NO PISSING OFF, ANNOYING, OR UPSETTING ANYONE IN GOD’S CREATION.

This lasted until January 3rd this time when I missed my appointment at the therapist. I  got winded on my new bike about five minutes from leaving my apartment, gave up, tried to  catch a ride while annoying my friend in the process due to how late I was, and ended up cancelling. My therapist wasn’t upset because she is part of  a place that caters to “special people,” and we miss from time to time. She tried to calm me down because I was in batshit crazy mode by the time I called, the first mistake of the year does that to me. Were my mother able to communicate from beyond, she’d tell you this part of me she doesn’t miss at all. She might even say, “See, sepsis has it’s good points.” Almost every fight my Mom and I had in later years was due to  my rage at my lacking perfection. Sigh.

On the 5th was the worst mistake yet of year 2014. An epic fail of motherhood. I’ve had a new kitten since October. My nurse gave her to me because she knew I’d take care of her for life, because my Oscar is still missing, and she needed to pawn the kitten off on someone.  Among my kitten’s many bad habits is jumping in the refrigerator every time I open it, and I always see her. I’ve even said to her, “Lil Mooky, I guess you never saw that episode of Punky Brewster when that girl got stuck in a refrigerator, huh?”

This time, though, I didn’t see Lil Mooky jump in the fridge with the salad dressing I put inside. I went to play video games when I heard a small meow that became frantic. “Mooky!” I screamed and opened the fridge and there she was crouching on the second shelf.  I tried to get her, but she jumped out herself. Not a second later, she was off chasing Dondee as usual. She seemed not a spec traumatized, unlike myself. 

This was taken when Mooky was a tiny baby staring at Dondee
This was taken when Mooky was a tiny baby staring at Dondee. Yes, my shades no longer “shade”

Lil Mooky’s real name is Mirielle,  but she’s more of a Lil Mooky than a Parisian miss. I got her Lil Mooky  ghetto name from this song:

Guest Post: Common Myths about OCD

 

By Lisa Pitts

Common Myths about OCD

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder affects a huge number of people. Approximately 1 in 40 adults and 1 in 100 children in the United States suffer with OCD, to varying degrees of severity. As most of us know, OCD is an obsession based compulsion to engage in ritualistic behavior, often to the detriment of the sufferer. It can cause a huge strain on the lives of those with it, and those around them. Whilst many sufferers and spokespeople are more vocal about the condition than ever before, stigma and misconceptions still surround OCD. So let’s dispel a few of them…

Myth: “I wash my hands X times per day, I have OCD!”

There is a huge difference between OCD and someone who just likes to have clean hands. Whilst obsessive hand washing is certainly one variation of OCD, it goes far beyond just having meticulous personal hygiene. When I suffered from OCD I didn’t just wash my hands because I wanted them to be clean, I washed them because I needed them to be clean – as if my life depended on it. If my hands weren’t clean, everything would go on hold until they were. OCD by its nature makes you think irrationally. If it doesn’t seem like the end of world if you don’t get the opportunity to wash your hands as much as you’d like, then chances are you don’t have OCD of the hand washing variety.

Myth: OCD is all about cleanliness and hygiene

This is one of the biggest misconceptions about OCD. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is ritualistic behavior that can extend to every area of life imaginable, in many ways. The main subcategories of OCD include (but are not limited to) washing and cleanliness, checking, repeating, ordering & arranging, and mental rituals. As such, even the simplest of day-to-day activities can become ritualized by a sufferer. For example, closing a door – the simplest of tasks for most people, but back when I suffered with OCD closing my bedroom door used to take me about a minute. When I closed it, I had to do so with my right finger pushed up against the right hand corner of the top panel. From there, I had to press the door 16 times to make sure it was shut – with four second intervals in-between each push.  This was because 16 was my lucky number, and four when squared was also my lucky number. If I didn’t do this, I believed with every part of my being that something terrible would happen – I’d tell myself if I didn’t do it that my mother would fall terminally ill, that my home would be destroyed, or that I would have bad luck for the rest of my life. Even though part of me knew it was irrational, I wasn’t prepared to take that chance. The urge was so overwhelming to perform this ritual, that performing it felt like a release. Peace would be restored, and I could continue on with my life – or what life I had with OCD.

Whilst numeric rituals are common in those with OCD, the condition can involve anything, be it objects, people or places. What defines it as OCD, is the overwhelming compulsion to do or think. The severity can be minor or major, and it comes packaged in a variety of ways – not just cleanliness.

Myth: OCD is developed during childhood

Whilst OCD can certainly develop within childhood (usually from the ages of 8 – 12 years), the average onset for most people is around the late teens or early twenties; though it can occur anytime. Therefore it’s not necessarily something caused by a traumatic childhood, or growing up in a broken home. Whilst the causes of OCD aren’t crystal clear, research suggests that a combination of genetics, serotonin levels within the brain, and environmental factors can all play a part.

Myth: OCD is a women’s condition

This isn’t true, OCD occurs within both genders equally.

Myth: OCD can’t be cured

Whilst there isn’t a specific cure for OCD, it doesn’t mean that the condition can’t be cured by various treatments. Whilst there are currently no tests to determine OCD, a diagnosis is made after a doctor/patient interview. From there, various treatments and therapies are available, but the one the National Institute of Mental Health and Harvard Medical School both recommend is CBT – aka, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. It’s also possible that an individual can recover on their own, whether consciously or not. For me, I simply decided that I would no longer have my life ruled by OCD and worked hard for years to break the irrational thought patterns. For those who don’t see that as an option however, help is out there – OCD can most definitely be cured.

Tubesteak with Habanero Sauce; or, How OCD Killed My Love Life

About  a week ago,  I went with my friend on our second solo dining experience. You know who I mean, the one who likes showing affection with his tongue as the Continentals do. As I have said before, this guy has the distinct honor of being my first date and my first French kiss. My life before my mother’s death was a bit uneventful in its solitude.  

I’ve known this guy off and on since third grade and have off and on liked him since about the fourth grade. When he gave me the surprise kiss and even more surprising tongue, I thought, Hey for the first time someone I could like likes me back! Winning!

This last excursion began with  Mexican food, and I have a big  steak.  We both have a touch of Habanero sauce, a green pepper sauce that is hot as hell. We have blue margaritas, another new experience that are tasty for alcohol. The drink goes to my head and before long I’m exclaiming, “Oh shit!” – at what, I don’t  quite recollect, but I have enough of my wits to feel a hint of embarrassment. Neither am I so buzzed that the running commentary in my head doesn’t play. Why is he interested in me?, I keep asking myself. I’m so shy, my conversation isn’t funny or fascinating, and I am less than average in looks. Could he have liked me all this time and waited for a proper time to act on it?

We are home and  I know he will try to kiss me again when we get to the door. I try to suppress my giddiness on the way. “Come here,” he says, just as he did before, like he’s going to give me a hug. This time I know his modis and am preparing myself. I’m going to kiss him back this time or die trying.

Now we’re going to count down all the first times in this one…

I manage to tuck my tongue under his in his mouth and leave it there for a couple of seconds, all necessary and proper.  When I retreat to  my tongue’s natural station, I say “Heh, well at least this time I got my tongue in too.”

I find myself relieved when his tongue returns to my mouth in a way which needs no reciprocation from me. It is a kind dispensation of heaven for a socially anxious woman to have a kiss with a guy whose tongue would be the envy of the Geico Gecko. And herein comes another first, he’s copping a feel of my breasts. Cupping them  and pressing me against him, and then, he caresses my bottom – another first. I want to discern whether his pole is raised to attention, but short of grabbing him or applying continuous pressure with my pelvis, which I don’t have the balls to do in either case, I decide I must not look either. It’s as though he’s trying to lift me. “Um, I’m rather heavy and we’re practically making babies in the hall.”

His solution is to pull me under the stairway conveniently next to the fire extinguisher lest we get too hot. More kissing with his tongue. Oh look here, he’s nibbling on my ear. A first! And there he is kissing my neck, another first!  I dare to look into his eyes once or twice and he indeed looks as though he actually wants to have me, devour me even.

Then he asks that question every gal dreams of hearing: “Do you have a ‘fuck buddy,’ Lisa?”

“Um no…I’m still a virgin.”

“I have a couple of them.”

“Who are they?” I ask, thinking GERMS!

“Nevermind about that,” he says. “Do you want to be my ‘fuck buddy?'”

I am not aroused because I’m too shy to be aroused being pressed against the wall.   So that’s why he’s interested. Oh.

I actually think about it.  I’m 34 years-old and my flower is wilted and gathering dust.  I say that I might let him have dessert one day as long as he has protection to keep from having a  Junior running around. I am giddy and want to hurry off lest Wilt Chamberlain  here tries to gain entry  when a neighbor might walk by.

I’m excited and happy that I am desired, the margarita still numbing my senses. I tell Soul Bro and we are giggly. It’s after I wake in the night that the tears come. I thought he  had feelings for me. Nah, he just needed another fuck buddy to go with his harem. Waaaah!

The next day I talk to Soul Bro, crying even though we are having a bowl. I want to divest myself of my virtue, but by someone who doesn’t love me? I don’t want to die a virgin. I don’t want to die alone. I mail him with a “when and where,” but several hours later seeing that he hasn’t responded, I write,  “Nevermind, I’m chicken.” I hope he will write back, but he doesn’t. Feeling my impending old age and ultimate death, plus the fact that I want Wilt in my life whatever way, I make another bid on Facebook, declaring “Fuck it. I’m tired of being a virgin.” That gets an answer and he agrees to Friday night.

Taking my best girlfriend’s advice, as well as my therapist’s, and casting it to the wind, I am ready for my virtue to die. My girlfriend tried to convince me I’m not worthless and that  I will meet someone someday. Noted, but life is such a damn transient thing, and unless I start hanging out with mutes, I will be at a disadvantage in the dating world. My therapist also had similar objections, plus the whole ‘fuck buddy’ thing being crass. Yeah. But I am resolved.

Then Team OCD decides to ruin any chance of me ever getting any. Ugh. 

My Soul Brother has made me up nicely – eyeliner, sparkly eyeshadow, and everything…when I get the call. Wilt’s tire blew out on the way to buy condoms and he will have to cancel. “I’ll get it fixed first thing in the morning,” he says.  

I decide to  ask him then the questions I felt must be asked before I let anyone into where no man’s ever gone before.

Perhaps if I had left it at “Do you have any STD’s?” this story would have a  happy ending. But no. I ask him if he has a medical encyclopedia’s worth of diseases, even if he has sores near his  genitals. 

Oops. Apparently, that’s not a turn on. But it  get’s worse.

“I know we’re not in a relationship or anything, but you won’t just drop me one day, right, or try to break my heart?”

AND, help us all…

“Maybe my mom is telling us we shouldn’t be doing this.”

Needless to say, he cancels the next day and says he’ll call in a couple of weeks. Let’s hope he calls before the world ends on December 21st.

New Post at New Blog and Incidentals in Mon Vie

Hi again, loyal minions! I have a new post up at the new blog. This one is an interview with Jaco, my beloved friend from over at  http:// justwriteofleft.com. I injected my semi-comedic stylings throughout the interview to garnish it and give it   the “me marinade.”http://ocdbloggergirl.com/?p=1414  . Let me know what you think!

Now for incidentals. Ah, I see where it says equine encephalitis found in mosquitoes around here. Not good, but mainly stays with horses unless it feels like infecting humans.  Have you ever found a mosquito biting  you. and since it’s already biting you, you decide to observe it’s phlebotomy skills. The little belly fills up, you can see the blood inside, and then she flies away.  Me neither!

  

Anywho, yesterday, I decided to finally go out to the pool for the day, something   I haven’t  done all season because of Trevor the Terror, the scourge of swimmers. In fact, since one particularly annoying encounter    at the pool  I haven’t been as passionate a swimmer as i have in past years. I do have a post I’m writing about that,  and hopefully I’ll have it done in a year or two, the way that I write.  I swam 12 laps, on my 4th lap some youngins showed up and then the pool monitor’s kids, but wasn’t a big deal.  The father relieved me by saying hello to me first. It’s like I’m paralyzed in my voice box until someone speaks to me and even then I’m anxious. I like people a lot, but it’s like I need permission to just be…and it’s getting harder. The day before yesterday, I had a fit and went to bed and stayed there, just because I couldn’t get things just right. I start something and have to stop, but anyway back at the pool. I read a bit of the world’s worst detective novel, played my original green screen Gameboy, read a little on my WordPress book. Jumped back into the pool and did 12 more laps in that just below the surface frog-way. It takes 30 seconds to get from one end of the pool to the other without surfacing and I’m proud that  I at least have that achievement. I want it as my headstone one day: “She didn’t do much of anything, but she could swim.” By the time I was done with that other set of laps and marveling how during my fourth lap again children showed up, my eyes were hurting since I couldn’t find my goggles that day.  I stayed out of the water and ritualized my out of water activities until I began feeling sickly in the 99 degrees and hauled ass home because my eyes could not endure another round of laps. I can get by with 12 without pain in my eyes, but more than that and I am bound to suffer. And the award for best mom at the pool 2011 ” I’ll dunk you over if you don’t stop crying,” said to a child of 2 or so, then splash splash in the face of him. Yep, that should stop him from crying for sure.

 

We went to McDonald’s for supper and I scored the first 3 Smurf happy meal toys. I think I was too enthusiastic as I looked at the toy display. “Mom! Just look! How cute! I gotta have them all!” People looked at me, but I guess they can go smurf themselves. Today I went and saw the movie in 3D. The first movie I ever saw as a child was a movie about The Smurfs, and what do you know, the first movie I ever saw in 3D was The Smurfs. Very cool!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



PS, sorry to everyone about being slow to respond. My mind is going so many directions. 

 

Old Blog Exclusive: My Weekend

Cover of "WordPress For Dummies"
Cover of 'WordPress For Dummies', Dummy

Since I want to continue writing here too, here are my thoughts on the weekend.

I am a jumpy sort of lass. I humiliate myself with a screech when my friend suddenly falls against me when sitting next to me. My friend tells me I suffer from “hyper vigilance.” And?

The same day, my mother runs the leftovers home so that the pizza won’t spoil, but she seems to take a while returning to the book store where she deposited my friend and me (Hey, fun quiz! Is the word ‘me’ correct or is it ‘I’? Not like I don’t know or anything, just seeing if y’all are alert!). I begin to assume my mom’s met an unfortunate end, of course, so I call home. Mom’s alive! Yay! Apparently, Philippe had jumped onto the counter and began begging for more canned cat food as he  does several times a day, so that helped delay my mom. My friend lectures me about being independent. Hey, my mom’s more or less my only family member and after she actually gives up the ghost I’ll be alone.  Which means I’ll die a cat lady or a bag lady or something.

Now that I know my mom is still among the living, I grab up the 800 page WordPress for Dummies monstrosity I’d been trying to absorb in 10 minutes or less, plus a dollar bin book on writing fiction and head for the counter. I know my mom wouldn’t approve me buying the $35.00  Wordpress book, on our credit card to boot, better to buy it and ‘fess up later in the evening (I have to confess stuff to my mom, a compulsion). I feel safe buying it now that my mom wasn’t dead, because in the back of my semi-sane mind, I think that had I not known my mom was alive and I bought the book, it would somehow kill off my mom as punishment.  Where are the men in white coats, right?  

My friend continues on the “independence” talk and my mom returns.

The next day my friend and I play Rummy at her house and I win. We watch Real Stories of the ER as we play and some guy has a cockroach stuck in his ear and the little f****r was biting the mans eardrum. This results in me going into labor and giving birth to a new phobia. 

 I help shampoo her computer room’s carpet, a new experience for me. I think a mixture of being tired and the Fabuloso we used on the carpet gave me a headache. We watch some of Gremlins. The channel the movie is on suggests the film may not be suitable for kids under 7. That movie scared me to death when I was the mature age of 7.  I think they edited a bit of the splatter in the blender  and microwave as the mother killed a couple of the gremlins in household appliances. I couldn’t bear killing something in a microwave, even a murderous Gremlin. Funny though, I have had  terrible visuals of putting a cat in the microwave. I have no desire to do such a thing, but the thought of it happening is enough to make me worried. When you have OCD, it’s vital to learn that harm obsessions are just thoughts that pass through the minds of kind people. Luckily for me I worry more about causing emotional harm to people than physical harm. At any given moment I’m afraid someone is mad or have hurt feelings because of me. 

I go to bed on my friend’s futon, the one you have to sit on carefully or one of the armrests falls off. I have a dream that may inspire a poem.

When I get home, Casey Anthony has already gone into hiding. My mom thinks wherever she is now, her attorney is boinking her. I hope not for his sleazy ass’ sake. There’s  a part of me that feels bad for Casey simply because so many people want her to die a horrible death. I believe God will make her pay on this earth. Being so hated will be a prison in itself  because she won’t be partying much. I doubt her sociopathic mind can fathom all the consequences of being notorious. I can’t believe Jesus would want people shouting “Kill her!” or even denying her a table at a restaurant. I smell a Casey Anthony post coming one day to my new site.

Miss Muffet: Modern Version Late Thursday’s Poets Rally

Clynotis severus, Female, Austin's Ferry, Tasm...
"Loving You is Easy 'Cause You're Beautiful" Image via Wikipedia

 

Big Ms. Lisa sat on her toilet

after eating pancakes of flour and milk,

When along came a creature just then to meet her

hanging from unseen silk.

She closed her blue orbs,  almost frightened away,

for vision she was partial to everyday.

 

“What the hell was that?” asked Ms. Lisa to her three sisters: Me, Myself, and I.

“Maybe it was an angry bee,” she said to Me, who did not disagree.

“Mighta been a ‘skeeter,” offered Myself, eyeing I.

I said, “It ain’t neither. Wonder if we have some pie?”

 

Ms. Lisa dared to  look herself and what did she see?

A spider in mid air, from the coils of Big Lisa’s big hair.

Ms. Lisa knew what had to be done,

and instead of run she grabbed a book

for the spider to be took.

 

Spider, however, had other desires,

book seat declined, he decided instead to go into its spine.

Ms. Lisa then divined that it takes much time

to free a spider when he otherwise is inclined.

A is for Anxiety

http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/p/top-ten-countdown-music-blogfest.html

Apparently ‘A’ can be for a lot of things.  ‘A’ is everywhere and a lot of words in the English language begin with said letter. Aardvark, author, anger, abortion. The possibilities for Topic A are endless. What should I write about? Angst? Art? Though I have an articulate, absorbing, awesome article on Planned Parenthood somewhere, I think “A is for Abortion (but Not A Lot of Abortions)” would be sort of off putting for the casual blog surfer. I feel sort of like Hester Prynee guest starring on Sesame Street.

From awesomestories.com
"Prithee, sir, willst thou tell me how to get to the pillory at Sesame Street?"

So how do I cast my reel into the blogosphere, hoping for an abundance of readers adept at commenting and all? I guess I will just stick to my area of expertise. I’ll give you a hint. It starts with an ‘A.’ 7 letters…

….

…..

Anxiety!

Yes, my area of expertise is anxiety. And how! But how, you may ask yourself, is said author an expert at anxiety?

Can she treat anxiety? No.

Can she show the audience how to deal with anxiety? No, not really.

Can she show someone HOW TO be anxious? Why, yes. Yes I can. You see, unlike many people who claim, “Like, OMG, I am so OCD! LOLz” I am the genuine, authentic article.  This may overwhelm you a bit at the state of being in the presence of such authenticity, like seeing a rare bird  or someone from Glee. I understand. Don’t let me overwhelm you too much, sisteren and brotheren. While you’re catching your breath and resting here, let me fill you in on a little trade secret of “Being OCD.” Psst. Now don’t tell anyone I said this, but the key to “Being OCD” is realizing you aren’t OCD. You don’t be obsessive-compulsive disorder, you have obsessive-compulsive disorder. I know what you’re thinking, “You say tomato,” right? Or maybe, “OMG,  there’s that OCD.” I’m just telling you this for clarification. Personally, I don’t care as long  as you know there’s a difference you may “OCD yourselves” on with my blessing.

So how can you be anxious like me? How can you perfect OCD and SAD (Social Anxiety Disorder)? In other words, how can one obsess like me? I’ll give you 5 examples and call it a day:

1.) First thing in the morning, before anything else, check your face for hair. Eh, what the hell,  even away from a mirror feel for it, feel for it, feeeeel for it,  any time your hands aren’t busy and no one’s looking. The checking and pulling are the compulsions. The thinking about it is the obsession. If you’re really good at the anxiety having you’ll take one man’s comments (who is a known asshat) and hold on to it for, what, 5 years or more and make it your “No one will ever love me, why God whyyyyy?! emo soundtrack forever and ever. Fun! Sure your chin hurts, but the price of beauty, right? Y’ou’ll think, “Why couldn’t I hold on to his comment about when I jump in the pool all the water splashes out?” But noooo. You love pizza too much. Oh, and then make sure to blame yourself because you’re you were the lucky 1 in 10,000 that that particular drug stops your period (great for swimming, though).

2.) Believe in the worst case scenario. Always. Your mom late? She’s probably just dead. Found a bump on you? It’s just cancer. Afraid you might go crazy one day? No worries. You’ll probably just become a serial killer. Amazingly enough, though, one’s mind adjusts to the belief that the worst is going to happen, so you handle actual  crises like minor annoyances.

3.) Believe everyone is mad at you or are about to be mad at you and will NEVER forgive you. You’ll try to find an offense in your mind. Sometimes you break down and ask, but you mainly try to hide that you’re that afraid of making someone mad or upset. Case in point: Dude unsubscribes from my blog ( this was in my early days of blogging). What a relief it was to know that he wasn’t mad at me, he just thought my writing sucks! ( I actually think that experience helped me become a better writer, though you wouldn’t know it from this post).

4.) Believe everything bad that happens is somehow in a round about way your fault. A secret gets told. You start to think other people think it was you who told. Then you start wondering yourself if you told the secret somehow. Math problem: 3 people lose their blogs that you follow. If you follow all 3 blogs, why did they lose their blogs ? (Remember to show your work!) Yes, I really believed that somehow it was my fault until someone told me the truth. And the fun thing is I know all that is irrational.

5.) Believe everyone thinks “stuff” about you. You are walking down a hall. You see someone down the hall coming towards you. You’re afraid if you look at him/her, he/she will think you’re staring at him/her. He/she passes you, you say hello, all the while wondering what that person thinks of you.  He’s/ she’s probably wondering who the next person will be to leave Idol, but you believe he’s/she’s busy thinking “There’s that weirdo” or there’s that ‘tard and why is she looking at me?”

Ahhhh, the catharsis of blogging. If any of you need more help being anxious, just let me know and thanks for reading!