Outside of me giving women who lack gag reflexes titles of distinction like "Head Doctor" and "Brain Surgeon" respectively, equipped with the bells and whistles that come along with having a graduation ceremony on a makeshift stage - I don't want to give any of my readers the impression that I'm some sort of mental health professional. That being said, I'm scared that habits I once chalked up as being my own quirky idiosyncrasies are starting to become full fledged OCD - the last thing I want to become is a new Millennium Negro version of Howard Hughes, I hardly get dates now, but just imagine how damaging being a recluse would be to my already incomplete social calender. I mean, sure, I have always been in the habit of washing my hands countless times a day - but I always figured that that had to do with my brother being a medical technician, the amount of garden variety germs and miscellaneous "coochie smears" that he'd tell me about would make Stephen King vomit in his own mouth. And yes, on the average I take four showers a day, but I never saw that as being obsessive compulsive - its more of an indictment of how much of a sexual deviant I am, I mean, you never know when you'll have to whip your dick out and get blown by a complete stranger.
But recently my behavior has started to seriously trouble me, outside of telling someone "you don't know shit" a million and one times every whenever I see them just because they very innocently happened to tell me a sub-par rapper that happened to adore - the few times when I'm lucky enough to see a woman naked, after we are laying in post coital bliss I feel obligated to say something purely outrageous just to momentarily perplex them. Random phrases like, "I haven't cum like that since 9/11", "Your vagina is grainier than the Zapruder film", and I unfortunately told a Jamaican woman "I love having sex with you, my cock smells like curry for about a month!"
But then again, yes I have my quirks, but I get the sneaking suspicion that most of my idiosyncrasies are just me being an asshole - but here are some real things that I routinely obsess over.
My Mother's Safety: I'm just going to come out and admit it, I'm a bona fide "Mommas Boy". No, I wouldn't be the variety of mother worshipper who would automatically take her side if I found myself in the middle of an altercation she was having with my future wife - I'm the variety of mother's boy who would gladly take a bullet for the woman who gave birth to me in the summer of 73'. Also, if someone happened to harm a solitary hair on her head - I wouldn't rest until I mercilessly hunted the bastards down, proceeding to make them worm food, and then commemorated their untimely passing each year by pissing on their unmarked grave. That being said, one of the things that I constantly obsess over is my mother's safety - Virginia Beach is hardly Beirut when it comes to the city's crime rate, I'm pretty sure that the people who read this that live in some of the rougher areas around the country would probably leave their doors unlocked if they happened to move here. But as of late, especially in the neighboring city of Norfolk - there has been an outbreak of senseless violence, the perpetrator is usually some kid in his early teens who maliciously dispatched a respected member of the community over 30 bucks. Because of this, I have been scared for my mother, and even though she's out by herself 95% of the time - whenever I see her and she happens to be going somewhere I insist on chauffeuring her to the desired destination.
But instead of being a simple driver to an elderly woman, like a melanin infused version of "Driving Ms. Daisy", I findd myself acting more like her personal secret service detail - angrily telling people to "back the fuck up" if they are walking too close to my mother in a department store. Telling a woman who exhaustively sighed behind my mother as she searched for her credit card, "Don't let an ill advised exhale get your husband fucked up!" But I think my mother reached her boiling point recently, as she stood in line at the local convenience store about to purchase her cigarettes - I could have sworn the kid behind her was reaching for his "piece", so I rushed inside the store and tackled that prepubescent motherfucker like I was Terry the Office Linebacker. He was just reaching for some change.
I might have a lovechild: Back in 2001, when my old man died and my mother was diagnosed with cancer - I lived a lifestyle that suggested that I didn't have any regard for both my penis or my liver. Imagine the Nick Cage movie "Leaving Las Vegas", only with the protagonist being a chubby black guy and with the flick being rated X - there being more alcohol involved of course. During this time I briefly dealt with a woman named Willetta, outside of the fact that we were polar opposites based on her having too many poorly written black movies in her collection - I mistreated her, not in an Ike Turner kind of way but in a "why are we having a serious conversation, I'm only here to fuck" sort of way. Anyway, the relationship was short-lived and when she stopped taking my phone calls a small part of me(not THAT part, believe me) applauded her decision - but I was told, roughly a year later(we shared the same Loctitian) that she had a child. Granted, she had a new boyfriend who was described as "the father" - but the birth of that child always seemed amazingly close to the time that her and I were practicing unprotected sex.
To be totally honest, my math could be completely wrong, and even though I constantly obsess over it - I keep envisioning myself finding the kid, claiming that I'm the father of that fucking crumb-snatcher and looking silly when the tests come back.
HumanityCritic, the God-Father: When my friend Jerry named me the godfather of his first born daughter, Quinn, I was a proud man - I mean, here is a guy bestowing a great honor upon a scumbag like myself when most people with the good sense that god gave them wouldn't trust me to momentarily watch their drink. But no sooner as the baby was baptised, the enormity of the situation crashed down on my shoulders as if I was giving the comedienne Monique a "mustache ride" - if Jerry and his lovely wife somehow met their untimely demise, would they expect me to look after their newly orphaned child? That's why every few months, I have to call and inquire about the couples health status - its not because I don't think that I could successfully raise a child, but if people saw me lugging a young white child around people would think that I kidnapped her ass. I constantly obsess about that as well.