Should I let the whole world (well...) know how neurotic I really am?
See, I've developed this thing - not quite OCD yet, but working on it - where I crack my fingers, my right-hand fingers, to be precise (I'm left-handed, and not taking any chances), every time I'm feeling stressed or sad or lonely or annoyed or murderously angry or scared of what the future really has in store for me.
So I start with the index finger, go on to the middle one and finish with the "ring" finger. I crack them with my thumb, in one nifty little move. Somehow, the feeling of the finger cracking combined with the sound of the finger cracking is soothing. (No, not really, but I thought if I'm going to come clean about my magic thinking, I might as well try and make it worth something. I could have gone with self-mutilation, but there was no way I was going to pull that one.)
And tonight, I was watching an episode of a series about, what do you know?, the love life, or lack thereof, of a 30 year-old girl in Paris, and at some point, something made me feel a little blue, or lonely, or identifying - anyway, I cracked my fingers. The middle one, rebellious little bugger that it is, didn't respond.
See, that shits me. When I want to feel sorry for myself (and you'll have to excuse me here, honestly, I'd started this in the privacy of my flat and wasn't going to share, but when things go wrong and you can't place the blame, someone still has to pay. In that case, I suppose it's you), I like it when things go smoothly. I either have a good cry (which I haven't had in a while because my lachrymal glands have been on an indefinite strike lately) or I crack my fingers, which is a lot more discreet and a lot less messy, and I think that is ultimately nice of me. So why? Why can't it be working? Why can't I get the stress-release that I crave (don't you dare) and crack my fingers properly?
Have I in any way offended my joints that they do not want to respond anymore to the little prodding that I give them every once in a while? Are they fed up with thinking ahead to those fantastic, osteoarthritis-ridden thirty years that I am preparing for them? Would they rather I bit my nails?
But I've done that already. My nails paid a heavy tribute to my nerves from as early as I can recall until I was 18 or 20. My hair did too. The price was not as high in its case, it was more a case of looking completely retarded while my fingers, seemingly of their own volition, would twist it around and around. And it usually unwound in completely random fashion, generally falling on my forehead, even if the strand I'd been torturing was starting right on the top of my skull. Nice.
If all else fails me, I guess writing it's going to have to be, eh: I told you, someone always pays. I'm just a teeny wee bit tired of it always being me-me-me.
Oh, and thank your lucky stars that it's not full-blown OCD (yet), because a programme on TV was showing some pretty horrid stuff the other day, which grossed me out actually, so I decided I'd stop short of clinically insane. Just short.
Ooh, listen, it's all fine again.