Fallout (Crank 3)

is totally out of whack. Nothing

you can do about that, either.

Not without therapy, and that

means telling someone you know

you’re just a tiny bit crazy.

How do you admit that without

giving up every bit of power

you have finally managed to grasp?

Some people have it worse than I do,

I guess. I mean I don’t wash my hands

seventeen times a day or count

every step I take, then take a couple

more until the exact number from

here to there is divisible by three.

My compulsion is simply order.

Everything in its place, and spaced

exactly so—one inch, no more, no less,

between hairbrush and comb. Two

inches, no more, no less, between pairs

of shoes on my closet floor. Black socks,

upper left corner of my top right dresser

drawer; white socks in the lower right.

I doubt Grandfather has even noticed

how every can in the cupboards is

organized alphabetically, labels out,

or that cleaning supplies beneath

the sink are arranged by color.

But Aunt Cora definitely has.

SHE DOESN’T TAKE IT SERIOUSLY

She thinks it’s funny, and funnier