Maxigumee

Which I am, I am obsessive compulsive. But I still don’t like it how my father can call me and other members of my family obsessive compulsive (while singing his horribly immature OCD song), when he himself has some obsessive compuslive symtoms.

Of course, he is hardly as neat freakish as I am. On the contrary, he is quite a slob, as proven when he completely ruined his office again, only within about a week or two of me cleaning it. It seems that anything that is nice looking makes him want to throw up, so he immediately must remove it from his office space. The office space isn’t even his own space, it’s a middle room that one enters when they go upstairs in my house, but he has made it known that it is *his space.*

The thing that is obsessive compulsive about my father is, in a sense, his slobliness, and his horrible organizational skills. If he had bothered to read that book on obsessive compulsive disorder, he would have found out that there are many, many types of obsessive compulsive disorder, not just the clean type. My father saves things. A lot. He has loads of old newspaper articles all over the place, just sitting there. I don’t know when he thinks they’ll come in handy. And the post-it notes?! Come on! Nobody needs that many post-its. It’s bad for the environment!

And he complains about me being picky about the way my space is treated? Move his computer one inch and he’ll put a post-it note on it saying: “Max- don’t move this or anything of mine at all ever!” Ahhhhhhhhhhh!