OCD & me walk hand-in-hand, with gloves mind you, down glass roads shiny and clean. Not a dingy cloud in the sky nor a nerve-racking mound of dirt or rust in the near or far distance. No doorknobs to touch, buttons to push, or switches to flick. Rivers of ethanol flow into mists of disinfectant. Inhale - but not too deeply, or your space suit'll contract. OCD and I skip merrily over hills of sterling silver, bounce and slide on over into a fiery blue pit. Its kind of hot, but that's okay. Fire kills bacteria.