Awe, to be human, to be flawed in the tiniest of ways, to be perfectly imperfect.
As long as we're in the confessional, mine is furniture. Well, not furniture specifically, but where it's placed.
I'll walk into a room and immediately sense something is out of place or shouldn't be there at all.
I'll sit there staring at it, feeling a strange discomfort in my stomach. I'm literally compelled to move it. I have to. No choice in the matter. Powerless. Social protocol is the only thing keeping me from doing so. Well, that, and the few times I've asked, were greeted with less than favorable comments. And yep, I really did ask.
Full disclosure, I'm doing it right now. I'm house sitting for a friend, and every cell in my body knows this particular green lamp I'm staring at does not belong in that corner. It belongs on the other side of the credenza, where the plant is, and that plant needs to be placed across the room next to the painting. I don't know why others can't see it. It's glaring to me.
This is not an intellectual design analogy, mind you, it's purely visceral. Like you with the slurping of Campbell's, I have a strong, adverse reaction to misplaced furniture.
Once upon a time, I was staying with a dear friend, and the bedroom I was sleeping in was painfully wrong. When they left the following morning, I sat in the living room, which was in dire need of rearranging itself, staring at the staircase leading to the bedroom in question.
I told myself Joe, this is not your house, don't you dare do it. To no avail, up the stairs I went. And as though I were Samantha with the twitch of her nose, the transformation was complete.
The tension in my solar plexus dissolved. I could now relax, and all was right with the world. Footnote, I did text my friend apologizing in advance. I could tell they were a bit perturbed; however, in my defence, they left every single piece exactly where I placed it.
I've had this propensity since I was a wee lad. Ask my mom. She knew her boy was, well, unique. Instead of a dollhouse, I had our home.
Sadly I'm with you.
I don't like the sound of other people eating, either. You are not alone among your subscribers.
Awe, to be human, to be flawed in the tiniest of ways, to be perfectly imperfect.
As long as we're in the confessional, mine is furniture. Well, not furniture specifically, but where it's placed.
I'll walk into a room and immediately sense something is out of place or shouldn't be there at all.
I'll sit there staring at it, feeling a strange discomfort in my stomach. I'm literally compelled to move it. I have to. No choice in the matter. Powerless. Social protocol is the only thing keeping me from doing so. Well, that, and the few times I've asked, were greeted with less than favorable comments. And yep, I really did ask.
Full disclosure, I'm doing it right now. I'm house sitting for a friend, and every cell in my body knows this particular green lamp I'm staring at does not belong in that corner. It belongs on the other side of the credenza, where the plant is, and that plant needs to be placed across the room next to the painting. I don't know why others can't see it. It's glaring to me.
This is not an intellectual design analogy, mind you, it's purely visceral. Like you with the slurping of Campbell's, I have a strong, adverse reaction to misplaced furniture.
Once upon a time, I was staying with a dear friend, and the bedroom I was sleeping in was painfully wrong. When they left the following morning, I sat in the living room, which was in dire need of rearranging itself, staring at the staircase leading to the bedroom in question.
I told myself Joe, this is not your house, don't you dare do it. To no avail, up the stairs I went. And as though I were Samantha with the twitch of her nose, the transformation was complete.
The tension in my solar plexus dissolved. I could now relax, and all was right with the world. Footnote, I did text my friend apologizing in advance. I could tell they were a bit perturbed; however, in my defence, they left every single piece exactly where I placed it.
I've had this propensity since I was a wee lad. Ask my mom. She knew her boy was, well, unique. Instead of a dollhouse, I had our home.
Thanks mom!
Ha!!!! Joe, I love this. I knew it wasn’t just me!
Much love, brother:)