Compulsive habits I've outgrown:

• catch seven drops of water from the showerhead after bathing
• count every stair and skip one if necessary to maintain an odd number of steps
• keep a written log in my nightstand to evenly distribute bed-sharing rights to each stuffed animal

On-going quirks:

• eat seven French fries with a fast food meal
• organize sock drawer, closet, and bookshelves by color
• straighten pictures, notes, pens, staples, magnets, books, etc.
• count to eight over and over again to overcome anxiety in public restrooms
• wash my hands three times every hour

That last one is a lie. I plan to add to this over time.

I am sharing my bed with two-thirds of the dirty clothes I've accumulated in the last six weeks. If only I could get Mt. Laundry to snore, I could pretend to have and cuddle with a half-ton boyfriend.

Five guys, five almosts.

You were my best friend, leaving for another state, and I was trying to joke away the pain of those last moments. You tackled me onto a recliner, hovered over me for a moment, and then walked away. I so badly wanted you to kiss me, but you didn't.

A year later. We walked out of a friend's house, and you tickled me until I retreated into my car. I was on my back across the two front seats, and you leaned in over me. I held my breath, but that only made my racing heart sound louder. I waited anxiously for you to kiss me, but you didn't.

Six months later. My head was on your lap, and you leaned over to kiss me. I saved us both. I turned my head away.

Two years later. You stopped to say goodnight, and you hesitated before moving toward me. I threw my arms around you before you could see the horror in my eyes at what was narrowly avoided.

Two weeks later. You had me by the wrists to keep me from beating you with my shoes. I would've given up the world for you to kiss me. You didn't.