I have a short list of eccentricities.  I do occasional odd, quirky things.  I may have a bad habit or two. And for the most part I embrace them.  I don’t think of them as flaws (mainly because I don’t have any).  I think of them as character traits, you know, things that separate me from the average Joe.  Things that make me unique.  Or special.  Or mildly retarded.

And while I’m not necessarily proud of all of them … I’ll be the first to own up to them:

First of all, I’m a chronic, CHRONIC nose-picker.  Always have been.  I cannot stand or tolerate for there to be any foreign thing (other than my finger) up my nose.  If there’s even the slightest hint of impropriety in my nasal cavity, I’ll be up there rooting around until it’s out.  My friend Jill often scratches/rubs her nose.  It drives me nuts.  I always think she’s trying to covertly convey that I have a hint of a booger or nose hair ajar.  Once she scratches her nose, I’m practically running to the bathroom to dislodge whatever hideous thing Jill is trying to point out to me.

Second, I will interrupt anyone, anytime for any reason.  Actually, I don’t even need a reason.  I’ll just start talking.  If you shut up and listen, great.  If you don’t, no problem.   We’ll both keep talking.  Clearly, I just need to say something before I forget it.  And clearly it’s more important than whatever you’re babbling about.  It’s a lot like Tourette’s, except I’m never random.  I’m usually just trying to make a point or be funny.

Third, I have a lot of non-verbal communicative skills that always give me away. (Read that: I do a lot of eye-rolling, flinching and violent lip pursing.) I can’t lie very well because the truth is forever written on my face.  I will never play poker because my poker face is non-existent.  Thus, if I don’t like you, you will know it.  I will never come up and be friendly to someone and then talk shit behind his or her back.  I would much rather cut out the middleman and just tell them I hate them.  Very little fuss or muss. And a lot less facial contortion.

I have a freakish, irrational fear of horses.  And I don’t care for bridges over water, troubled or otherwise.

If I’m filling up a bottle of water or pouring a glass of OJ (or something similar), I need to count to 12.  I’ll vary the speed at which I’m counting so the glass doesn’t overflow before I hit the big 1-2.  Why 12?  Who knows?

I chronically overeat one specific thing everyday.  Like an entire jar of peanut butter.  Or six dozen carrots.  Or fourteen cans of Ginger Ale.   (Today was granola bars.)  Good thing I’ve become lactose intolerant in my later years.  I used to love inhaling yogurt and ice cream.

I am practically psychotic about karma.  The ol’ what-comes-around-goes-around theory.  Years ago, if a cashier gave me too much change, I’d pocket it and mumble, “Moron!” under my breath.  Inevitably, the next day, I’d have a flat tire.  Once at a restaurant, a waiter gave me the wrong bill (which was considerably less than what my bill should have been).  I paid the inexpensive bill and left chuckling.  The next day my car was broken in to.  Cosmic payback and karmic retribution is a bitch, I tell you.   I flat out lied to my boss over the phone once (because I can’t fib in person) … and was stricken with a horrid skin rash 24 hours later.  We are talking BOILS, people.  This bit of intergalactic intervention was noted at about age 35 … and since I started doing the right thing (as Spike Lee would say), I have been problem-free … uh, and lesion-free.

So there you go, my dear readers.  Not only was that cathartic, it was refreshing to type.  I always knew I was kind of an odd duck.  Although compared to some of you, I look positively normal.  Even if you’re a whack-job nutcase, chances are I’ll still love you.  And if I don’t, uh, you’ll know it.