Sometimes I think we're all a little bit crazy. At the very least, we all have our quirks. I used to have to go to the door knob and touch it about five times to make sure it was locked. I got over that, but still double checked it, without actually touching it. That's not neurotic, it's sensible--expecially since I found it unlocked one time. Now, of course, I live in a hotel, and the door usually locks behind me. That's fine, except when it does lock and I've run out without my key card.
My sister Heather is fairly normal. I say fairly because she's extra tidy and lines up her vitamins alphabetically, like they do in drug stores. I looked in her dresser once. All her bras and undies were folded neatly and lined up by color. Can you believe that? The insides of my dresser dawers are a mess. But outside, everything usually looks good. Kind of like how I am in real life: Put together on the outside. Messed up on the inside.
So, does our underware tell stories about us?
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