Now you know.

The smell of peanut butter on kitchen utensils while I'm washing dishes makes me gag. But I could probably eat peanut butter straight from the jar. And smell it.

I put lotion on my hands, but promptly wipe it off with a towel because I don't like the greasy feeling.

There is nothing worse than putting on clothes after a shower or after swimming when my body is still wet. I'd rather scrape my fingers down a chalkboard.

I hate butterflies. I can't rationalize it. But I'll play with caterpillars any day.

I blow into cups or glasses before I pour a beverage into them. There might be dust.

In public restrooms, I tear the first square of toilet paper off the roll and throw it away before I tear some off for myself.

If there is a bad smell in the air, I hold my breath. I think I might taste it if I don't.

I won't eat corn anywhere but from the cob.

I won't drink iced tea. It reminds me of hot tea that's been sitting on my desk too long, getting cold. I can't drink it cold.

I won't pull the covers over my head because I start to panic. I might suffocate.

I think running is boring.

The crust that forms on the mouth of a milk jug under the cap makes me gag. If any of it drops into my glass, I have to pour the entire glass out and start over.

I can't sleep if my feet are not covered by a blanket.

I can't sleep without something - a sheet, blanket, pillow - covering me. Even if it's hot. I feel safer.

I can't drink water from a faucet unless it's been refrigerated. I will never drink water from a bathroom faucet. I fear it comes from the toilet.

Chicken wings are heaven until I look at the pile of wing carcasses that begin to stack up on my plate. Then I want to throw up.

I'll eat ranch dressing on anything but salad.

I can't walk around my apartment with bare feet because "house debris" sticks to the bottom of my feet, and it creeps me out.

If you chew your food like a cow, I hate your guts for the extent of time it takes you to finish eating. Also, don't bite your utensils when you eat.

I get self conscious when I walk past a group of people, and consequently forget how to walk.

Because I have my nose pierced, I can't wear earrings anymore because I think there will be too much going on on my face.

I cry when I'm angry. And embarrassed. And happy. And stressed. I'm not sad very often.

I can't wear a pair of jeans unless they sit at an exact location on my hips, and for this reason, I have only two pair of jeans. I blame my hips.

I despise dirty kids. Wipe their mouths. Make them wear shoes and blow their nose. And clean their ears.

There are probably four pictures of myself - throughout my entire life - that make me look good. And they're probably from my infancy. And I couldn't point them out if I tried.

I'm self-conscious of the size of my head. My face is round. I try to pretend it's because I have a large brain.

If I sit at work long enough, surrounded by the sound of eight people punching the keys on their keyboards, I'll have a psychotic breakdown. That's why I have an iPod.

Everything has sentimental value. Which is why I still have score cards from miniature golf, a wristband from Noah's Ark and a dead flower.

Blood makes me nauseous, even my own. I get dizzy and my mouth waters. And then I have to lay down.

When I was young, I declared that I wanted a star to land on my face. I thought they were like feathers. Dad explained it would destroy the entire campground.

My earliest distinct memory is my fifth birthday. I was in the locker room of the YM(W?)CA with Mom. I told her I didn't feel any older than four. I was disappointed. I may have made that memory up, because under most circumstances I don't remember last Thursday.

I ran track and cross country for four years, competed in 5k races, did a triathlon, ran a marathon and signed up for another, but don't consider myself an athlete. Or a runner. Or fit. I don't know why.

When I'm nervous I blush. And sweat.