I’m still shaking off the idea that Long Island consists entirely of haunted houses and places to get Polish sausage.

I instantly tune out of discussions involving corpspeak to any degree. Today I learned that this may be due to a coping process called “divorcement.” I forget what else was said after that.

I am a perfectionist to the point of paralysis. Where I’m able to work past it, it still manifests either as minimizing the things I do or as an assumption that I’ll never really be good at them. Or both.

In my head, I am a much smaller person than I actually am.

I don’t like going to bed when other people are still up because I’m afraid I’ll miss something.

I love having time to myself. When I was growing up, my absolute favorite time of the week was Saturday morning, when I could be sure to have the house to myself for a couple of hours before my folks woke up.