Ok, got 6 likes, so 6 confessions. Here goes…
Confession #1: I have a mild case of OCD. Don’t touch my sh*t! If something comes in multiple colors, I *have* to have one of each color. All my pens have to be capped with the tail part of the cap trailing down toward the brand lettering. Colors myst be in spectrum order. Files have to be in alphabetical order. I don’t care if it makes sense another way, they HAVE to be alphabetical. I *have* to make my bed every morning (although, nowadays, it doesn’t have to be perfect). I do chores in a certain order and on a certain day. If you mess with my schedule I have a coniption. Ok, maybe more of a not-quite-severe case of OCD (which should be CDO because THAT is alphabetical!)
Confession #2: I apparently have ADD. Ooooh, shiny! @.@ I always said I had adult-onset ADD and that I knew my attention span was that of a flea on speed, but I didn’t know I really DID have ADD. Go figure. ME, with ADD…
Confession #3: I sucked my thumb until I was 22 years old. Didn’t matter that I got picked on un-mercifully for it. I would just make sure I did it where no one could see me. Definitely an insecurity thing. But, I had a GREAT boyfriend when I was 22 and was able to stop, cold turkey.
Confession #4: I *like* being single. I have a hard time sharing my stuff (including my son). I don’t want to be bothered with having to ask for permission to do something or check-in with someone or consider someone else’s schedule/feelings/etc. I am a selfish bitch and only my son gets to see the caring, I’ll-do-anything-for-you me.
Confession #5: This is gonna blow your mind. There are times I *wish* I had someone. I know, right? Just when I need a good hug or a good, manly shoulder to cry on. This doesn’t happen often (well, NORMALLY it doesn’t, this year sucked), but when it does, I’m double-bummed and the depression is worse.
Confession #6: I *love* *love* *love* stuffed animals. I am such a child when it comes to that. I have a REALLY hard time walking passed a display of beanie babies, teddy bears, etc. and NOT cuddling one, touching noses, squealing or just plain begging myself to buy one. It’s a sad, pathetic addiction. I even have like 2 or 3 on my Amazon wishlist. Yes, I am pathetic. Bite me.
And a bonus confession because I’m feeling generous…
Bonus Confession: I have the sense of humor/maturity level of a 10-year old boy. I think farts are funny (as long as they aren’t at the dinner table or OMG-I’m-gunna-die smelly). I think burps are funny. I can burp with the best of them (ask my son and his friend, E, about the burping contest. I won). I like playing with bb guns. I like playing war. I banter with my son calling him a “dork”, then he calls me a “fart-knocker”, I call him a “fart-sniffer”. We think this is hilarious. And you all do to, c’mon, admit it. It feels good. Just like a giant Pepsi burp…unless it goes up your nose…then those aren’t quite so fun.
And there you have it. My confessions. I hope you enjoyed (learned something new).