getting there

I am coming to realise growing up has nothing whatever to do with making sense of the world like I thought, but almost completely to do with making sense of myself.

Of knowing how I am, what I am like and how that effects things can, I am sure, cut down on half my arguments, all of my meaningless frustrations and pretty much all minor troubles such as indegestion/sleeplessness/cranky-spots.

For instance. It is not Liam's fault I come home from the movies and go into a whirlwind of tidying. Nor is it unfathomable he'd be annoyed I am moving all of his stuff. And it would have saved an entire evening discussion if I'd realised I am doing EXACTLY the false cleaning (e.g. stacking up papers in the cornder and shoving mess in a drawer) my dad always did because of my nazi-ish dependency on having a clean kitchen table to come home to.

And if I just knew that was what I was doing and either:
a, talked myself out of it or
b, told him it bothered me and found a way around it,
I could have still had time to watch Rushmore before bed.

The world would be a better place if I was self-aware. Maybe I should get threapy.