Adventures in Psychology

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Barbarella likes her bed to be made. She really likes it to be made. In fact, she's emphatic about it. Of course there's nothing wrong with a little bit of tidiness - it's a good thing. There's nothing wrong with making your bed when you get up in the morning. Flip however, started to notice something a little different about Barb. She made the bed at odd times. Like when they were in it. Of course, being in it with her was distracting so he didn't think much about it. Then he discovered that sometimes, occasionally, when circumstances absolutely called for it, Barb would sleep on the couch so that her bed would already be made when she got up in the morning. That's when Flip realised that Barb had a thing. A scary thing.

Ok, do you remember last month's column? Remember how once upon a time I was broke, living in a storage closet and working a crappy retail job? Remember? Good. Well now picture me at that time having just pulled together every last penny of loose change that I have, which is real money for me because I'm broke, to buy a Super Big Gulp down at the 7-11. A Super Big Gulp that I have to walk ten blocks to get because my car is broken down and I can't afford to fix it. Now pair me up with a guy, let's call him Lurk, who has a thing about food. Other people's food.

"Hey Shaggy, can I have some of your Big Gulp?" My heart sinks at the question, but how much harm can a swallow or two do. It is, after all, a large beverage, and Lurk has an established track record of being deeply disturbed if people don't share their food with him. He has a thing about it.

Fear your elders.

"Uh sure, go ahead. Don't use my straw though, ok?" I reluctantly but good-naturedly hand the mighty carafe of carbonated joy over.

Lurk looks at me, a little confused. "I don't need your straw."Now I'm a little confused, so I stop and watch Lurk cart my precious treasure out into the kitchen. I start to grow alarmed when he pulls a large mug down off the shelf, then watch with horrified fascination as he begins to pour my Big Gulp into it. Slowly, painfully, the level rises in Lurk's mug. I stare in disbelief as the level rises and rises and Lurk keeps pouring. Roughly half an eternity later Lurk hands me back my now half-empty drink. Keep in mind that Lurk has a job and a car at this point.

Now picture me calmly placing my wounded drink down. Imagine me pushing it clear of the table's edge and the dangers that reside there. Now envisage me flying across the room onto Lurk's person. Picture me trying to strangle the life out of him. Also, picture a quixotically cheerful, strangely dopey Flipperson attempting to intervene while laughing insanely. Lurk has a thing. A thing that almost got him killed. Bastard.

So. What exactly is a thing? Well, I'm no psychologist, although I sometimes pretend that I am, but here's my theory. A thing is a sort of scar, a leftover side effect of something that went wrong with you. It's like a little short circuit from when you got walloped with something unexpected and, rather than making a healthy and sane assessment of it, you panicked and built a little defence against it instead. A defence that you now cart around with you, occasionally flailing it about in a mouth foaming fury, and which makes you look like a lunatic unless you keep it hidden away.

So. Got a thing? Of course you do. What's your thing?

Three Things: