The bed is adequately made, the piles of useless papers I don't feel comfortable throwing away yet are neatly stacked, the dishes are drying, and the shades are drawn to equal heights, and a sneaking suspicion  that I may be what some call "anal retentive" is growing like a late afternoon shadow.

Recently I was discussing my peculiar eating schedule with my friend, Ted.  I related to him the necessary times at which I take meals, in order to prevent weakness or bad moods, when I noticed a disgusted expression of utmost admiration on his face.  Soon it wasn't just dinnertime we touched upon, but the naps I  find time for every Monday/Wednesday (being rather tuckered after dance class), and my habit of waiting until at least 9:30 on Weekend evenings before heading to the bar for (rather specifically, I'm afraid) a shot of Clan McGreggor and a pint of Pabst Bluest Ribbon, except on Thursdays when I sometimes indulge in one or two Vodka tonics.  

"Has it always been like this?" Ted asked, and I felt as though he was being polite  not saying, "Have you always been like this," which rings of freakdom, an accusation of weirdness.  

"No," I replied, and since that moment I've been thinking... Have I?

Not clean, or responsible, certainly not.  Even now, by many standards I am neither - but have I always been a creature of habit,  a slave to routine?  Maybe.

What terrible phrases.  Do they not imply that I am nothing better than a feral beast, host of urges and lacking will, lacking freedom?  Do they not imply that joy is bursting into flames, a paper airplane riding wildly a sudden stream of rain?  

The mountains of Kauai: these are beautiful mountains.  So lush and primeval, the imagination itself has no greater wilderness.  Jurassic Park, TV's Lost, a hundred movies and programs seek to capture these unknown forests for "slaves of routine" to marvel at, and I saw these mountains with my own two eyeballs, lucky me.  They were beautiful.