I got your secret right here. Obsessive-compulsive DESIRE, not disorder. It's how you make the magic happen.
When I was 27 I discovered a few things. The most important was that I'm a witch. Before you get your panties all twisted backwards, shut it and take a listen. No one said the word Wicca. No one is wearing bad crushed velvet dresses and pentagram necklaces. No one is going to force you to listen to Stevie Nicks. Okay, I'm going to be humming a little Nightbird, but I don't expect you to. You could never understand.
I was very successful as a child. Big whoop-ass, I know. But I was successful as the only child of lower middle-class basket cases who raised me like Elizabeth Smart's abductors. We were always in a van on the way to Jesse Jame's grave or some other wild west horse turd. There was no one to talk to all summer so I read ALL THE TIME. Boxed sets of books were how I measured the years. 8 was Little House, 9 was Narnia, 10 was Lord of the Rings. 11 was "Sorry kiddo, I'm fucking a 19 year-old Korean now. We're staying home this summer so I can go to the river in my SPEEDO and take pictures of us together that will haunt the walls of my trailer for the next 20 years" (horror, horror, fucking double horror, we are not European and my father wears a Speedo. This bothers me WAYYYYY more than the cheating ever could)
In school, I had tuna on whole wheat and the mom who came with pomegranates to explain Persephone. I'm in third grade for Christsake. I want my mom to bring some cupcakes and get the Jesus out before she humiliates me. Let's not start with the caroling.
Oh fuck it, it's almost Christmas, let's do it. Let's start with the caroling. Let's talk about dressing up like you're going to work at the Renaissance Faire in the blistering heat of the San Fernando Valley. My mother would sew outfits en homage to Dickens and come seven o' clock the Sunday before Xmas we would haul our sweaty asses up and down the street singing. My dad played the guitar and lived out some medieval fantasy, my mother howled tonelessly behind me. Do I really need to tell you that I wanted to fucking kill myself. Do I really need to tell you that the commenting that went on on Monday was the beginning of "character building" that would last a lifetime? No. I don't. I just need to bust out " A soul, a soul, a soul cake, please good missus, a soul cake" for you to feel my pain.
Mi famiglia. Jesse James and Soul Cake. You know I could have been one of those dorks with a vest and knee socks. Instead, I grew a love of wizards and a sick fascination with medieval torture devices. Hmmm.........