I blamed the OCD. That tiny malformation of genetics, passed gladly and unknowingly through generations, finally reaching its crescendo in the bloodstream of the twenty first century. It was the same type of gene that made me enjoy wearing little hats and shoes with cats on them. The anti-social gene. It had to be the fault of something. I blamed the OCD.
I checked the front door was locked and went upstairs into my room. I checked that I had set the alarm on my phone, and the alarm on my alarm clock for three minutes later… I always set them the same way. I didn’t want to be late for work, afterall. Then I lay down in bed and closed my eyes… and slowly… ever so slowly… drifted off to… had I checked the front door?! Continue reading “Resisting the Urge”