The above is the hall­way towards my French class in high school. I’ve walked it many times.

If you don’t know me, I like sym­me­try. The cen­ter is where things belong. Wes Ander­son under­stands my taste and love of all things in the mid­dle right where you can see them and feel them. It’s that sweet spot where your eyes con­verge and depth appears from a flat uni­form sur­face. It appears I’m not the only one.

And that’s the thing. I’m never the only one. The mix I have on 8tracks? Some­one else is lis­ten­ing along­side me some­where else in the world. The map I’m tak­ing off my wall? Some­one cre­ated it and has seen it hun­dreds of more times than I have. The let­ter I’m hold­ing? It was writ­ten for some­one else long ago, I just don’t real­ize it yet. Sym­me­try is pretty asym­met­ri­cal, espe­cially when you’re not the only one front and center.

Every­thing has come off my walls, my floor is cov­ered with bags and clothes and more bags and all I can think of is sym­me­try. It’s funny that sym­me­try exists in odds when we try so hard to be in pairs. Ones and threes and fives are what please our eyes but we have two knees and two eyes and two hands and two every­thing. One of my knees is bleed­ing right now — I don’t know why. Luck­ily it’s not get­ting on my lap­top. With papers thrown in the air and Corona thrown down my gul­let, it’s a weird feel­ing to be leav­ing home, now for the 13th time. I know I’m not the only one.

Being the cen­ter of your own world is a strange feel­ing when you real­ize every­one else has had the job at one point. You’re just a series in an assem­bly line of suc­ces­sors and my words have no mean­ing. It’s 2:27 and I just met you. This is crazy. Call me maybe?

Back to my point, my OCD kicks in when I look out one eye­ball and my foot is hang­ing over the ledge. They’ve got to line up. My pen­cils have to be equally spaced from my paper when they’re not in use. One on each side. But threes and ones and fives in pic­tures. Never twos and fours and sixes.

My walls are cur­rently empty and like the Lorax speaks for the trees, my walls speak for my mind. I’ve offloaded my men­tal clut­ter and I don’t exactly know where to go from here. Per­haps one more Corona? I think it’s time I headed back to LA for a lit­tle while. I’m not the only were­wolf run­ning around at night anymore.