OCD Kryptonite!


This may come as a shock to some of you, but I have to admit that I harbor mild to medium Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (should I really have a dash between “Obsessive” and “Compulsive?”) tendencies. No, no, it’s true. And like those with similar issues, there is an issue that can get me every time, without fail: Empty Containers.

ocd2              Yes, those are my Kryptonite. Sure, I may be having a wonderful day. My favorite sports teams are winning and the weather isn’t intolerable. Things are good. And then I go to put something away. In most cases it’s leftovers from dinner. I’ll open the drawer in the kitchen and reach for a Ziploc bag and, to my horror, the box located therein is empty. There is no good reason for this box to exist any longer. It has fulfilled its role in life and now, there is no reason for it to go on. Yet it persists in existing and taking up drawer space. This does not make sense. So I give my trademark smirk and mutter something under my breath that only dogs and wives can hear, and put the empty box in the trash.

ocd3             Oh well, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not a game changer, so I replace the box of bags and go about cleaning up. I reach for a paper towel. And Lo! The roll of paper towels is empty. Yet there it sits. The empty cardboard tube, which is now useful only as a fake spyglass or potentially a toy dagger, continues to occupy the space on the paper towel dispenser but with no paper towels. I mutter something further and I begin to hear stirring upstairs indicating my wife heard the mutterings. This is not good. So I just throw out the tube, replace the tube with a fresh roll of paper towels.

Okay, time for bed. It’s turned into a somewhat rough day but no real harm done. So I kiss my daughter and wife good night and open the refrigerator and reach for a cold bottle of water I take with me to bed. And what manner of Hell presents itself as I yearn for peaceful slumber? No bottles of water in the fridge! We have thirty cases of bottled water in the garage (a place that in my dreams was a storage unit for automobiles, but instead has turned into a hoarder’s archeological dig site), but no one could replace the water bottles in the fridge!

Oh the humanity! Surely mankind cannot survive an onslaught on logic and order such as I have seen this night. How does one recuperate from this attack on one’s nerves? A single tear begins to well up in my right eye as I grab my bottle of room temperature water and slowly walk up the stairs, utterly defeated. I place my water bedside and lay down. I reach for a tissue to dry the evidence of my sorrow.



Never again shall I ever be able to even dream about…

Be[ing] Good or Good At It!

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