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My OCD (and we’re talking diagnosed, not topic-sentence short-hand for fussy) tends to manifest harmlessly. I like counting bottles above bars over and over until the last one in the row is divisible by my age; at thirty-two, this is proving quite difficult. I take an occasional Klonopin to sleep if I can’t stop picturing, say, the lesser Greek gods frolicking in vivid 3-D above my bed for hours. Lately, I fear that I’m going to throw a glass of water in someone’s face, so I spend restaurant meals clutching tablecloths and suffering through awkward ideations that feel more real than reality. These things pass. But a pernicious, decade-long symptom is my desire—no, my need—to be kissed on New Year’s Eve at midnight.

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