Dysfunctional Remake

My introduction to You Seriously Made That!?

 was this post:

Dysfunctional Me 

 

Thanks to Char for that introduction.

I love that Cami, the blog's author, embraces her idiosyncracies.  So to celebrate with her, here are 6 ways you may be more functional than I am.

 

Seriously.

It's not a joke.  I cannot handle wet paper touching my skin.  It freaks me out immensely.  We're talking panic attack level.  Drying my hands with paper towels is a huge dilemma for me.

 

For those of you who are friends with me on facebook, you probably saw my recent post about eating a banana.  For those of you that don't know, I have avoided bananas like crazy for years.  Partially for the taste.  But mainly because the texture of the banana makes me gag.  It's mushy and doesn't lack real substance.  

Jello is another one.  I can't eat it...unless it's a jello shot and the perk of the shot aspect is the only reason why I'll swallow it.  But if you want me to sit down with Bill Cosby and snack on a bowl of jello, you and I are no longer friends.

I could keep going but I think you get the picture.

 
This is more of a warning to you.  You're welcome.

 Let me see if I can aptly explain this.  If there's a good jam that comes on the speakers in the store, you know, something like "Straight Up" by Paula Abdul, I'm likely to break it down while picking out my pasta.  I've been known to "drop it like it's hot" like the white girl I am while grabbing a gallon of milk.

 And just in case you are wondering, Eric does this every now and then although he may not admit to it.

I know I've mentioned my clinginess to books but I feel like it's important to reiterate how much this affects my life.  Most people give me a weird look when I start explaining my love of the written word, specifically IN PRINT (forget your silly e-reader, kindle-kiss-my-butt, technology).  I defend my love of books all the time.  I'll probably be 90 and still shoving actual books down people's throats as everyone else keeps trying to shove an e-reader in my hands.  I'll break it, I swear.

 At some point in my childhood, I convinced myself that the covers of the bed were protective.  Regardless if the "attacker" was a monster from under the bed or a burglar, as long as I was under the covers, I was safe from harm.  That stuck with me throughout my life and to this day, I can't have more than an arm and my head above the covers at night.  I get UBER paranoid if anything slips out.  And I'll wake up if anything slips out from under the covers.  It's quite a struggle if you share a bed with a cover hog.  And I'm referring to Kaya, my dog.