an essay [read confession] that i didn't intend to write.

I’m inclined to write an essay entitled why I don’t belong in community.

One that highlights my procrastination, especially where it pertains to yard work, chores and the like… Or my strange obsessions with how certain things are arranged on shelves or walls… Or how I like the pillows to be arranged in a particular way… Or how I walk on the sides closest to the walls of the stairs so as not to wear down (even more) the already worn down carpet in the middle of said stair… Or how any little crack in the house (like the new one where the base board is coming apart from the wall) grinds pulls on my brain like the San Andreas pulls California farther away from America… Or my great lack of cooking prowess that doesn't seem to bother me when I try to boss others around the communal kitchen... not to mention how these little OCD spurts cause my wife to smile at me sweetly no matter what she's really thinking... not to mention how my housemates (past, present and future) simply shake their head at my ridiculousness… and beyond the "small things," my inability to put others feelings and needs before my own, my recurring foot in mouth, my inability to comfront people, my inherently introverted nature, my shoes constantly left lying around, my saying my so much that you're probably sick of it...

Not to mention how many people don’t need to know these little things about me. I mean, I’d rather they didn’t... but they just come out.

Oh well, I suppose I just wrote my "essay" (at least part of it). And it’s for all those reasons that I’m not inclined to live in community that makes me need (and love) it all the more.