What's your, ah, compulsory fetish?
Ah, c'mon. Admit you have one.
I see stuff on TV and read in the news about people who are trapped in OCD. It's no laughing matter. I feel badly about saying I have OCD when I know I have, well ... minor compulsions.
I'm no hoarder. I don't wash my hands 1,000 times a day. I'll shake your hand without reaching for the sanitizer, but I like certain things certain ways.
It's numbers, mostly. Although that said, I don't like the color green. Green's bad luck.
Or not.
I like numbers divisible by 3. The number 4—which I once heard sounds nearly the same as the word death when spoken in Japanese—seems, not unlucky, but worthy of avoiding. Let's not discuss the lengths I venture to avoid any timing device landing on the number four.
Electric plugs. When unhitched from the circuit, the metal prongs must dangle in air.
Let's not continue. I will be forced to speak of rampant claustrophobia.
