dragonsphere35

I read a story once about a man who had six PhD's in six different fields. I don't remember what fields they were, but I was impressed - that much I remember. As I read on, it became clear that the reason he found so much success was his severe OCD. He was so consumed by the disorder that he read each page of each textbook hundreds of times. And I remember thinking it was crazy, insane, psychotic. But I guess it worked for him. So I forgot about the man with the six PhD's and the torturous perfectionism that some call "disorder." Until I Met Candyce Karolyn Ethanson. It was fourth grade and I called her names behind her back because she h

but I merely bit my lip when she asked me, "What is it you're thankful for?" How could I tell her I was thankful for this heart that beats a thousand times over when I hear her speak?

blood oranges are beautiful. we can slice them open without a moment’s thought, - their crimson juices licked from our lips like ichor. & that is what i want to be. - scarred fruit, still savoring the promises i sucked from your mouth - to wear like staples along my spine.     - i was cut open                      once.

She was a troubled girl, says the color of her dress hanging over a torn up and damaged door; a sad one too, says the tear soaked bed in the corner; A strange, God-hating one, says the carving in the wall and the positions of the rocks on the shelf; but not a girl of society, say the poems of suicide and depression on the desk. A cat lived with her, says the scratching post near the door with catnip covering the floor around it, and it lived in the room says the bag of cat food ripped open. Light was scarce, say the candles melted on the desk dripping down to the floor, and so was food, say the half eaten bars of food and bags