It means that I bathe my hands in Clorox bleach before and after I eat, go the bathroom, shake hands with anyone, touch a doorknob, put on clothes or go outside.
It means I cry myself to sleep each night, wondering if the poison fog I've imagined is going to leave my stuffed animals fatherless.
It means I hide my DVD collection.
It means I imagine making babies with more of the women I see in bookstores and coffeshops, because - hey, you never know.
It means I switch long distance companies at every available opportunity, because I want the phone companies and telemarketers to think kindly of me when I'm gone. Maybe one of them will eulogize me.
It means I commit petty theft and speed in school zones.
It means I take my performance art more seriously.
It means I've acted upon my wondering what the delicious liquids my mom hides under the sink would taste like.
It means I squeeze in a few hours a week to draw circles with my freshly Cloroxed fingers around the faces of girls from high school whom I never confessed my love to.
It means I haven't washed my truck in a few weeks.
It means I sleep 14 and watch 8 hours of television a day.
It means I sing the lyrics to "Desperado" when I am exiting supermarkets, 7-Elevens and restaurants.
It means I haven't had my hair cut in 11 weeks. And that I refer to this as "the plague." As in, "the plague is in its eleventh week."
It means my fatalistic attitudes are, in some small way, warranted.
It means I wear a hot pink Pro-Tec bicycle helmet wherever I go.
It means I've stopped ignoring my impulses to dance with checkout girl to her grocery store/home furnishing store/clothing store's heavenly muzak.
