Harry: There are two kinds of women: high maintenance and low maintenance.
Sally: Which one am I?
Harry: You're the worst kind; you're high maintenance but you think you're low maintenance.
Sally: I don't see that.
Harry: You don't see that? Waiter, I'll begin with a house salad, but I don't want the regular dressing. I'll have the balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side. And then the salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce on the side. "On the side" is a very big thing for you.
Sally: Well, I just want it the way I want it.
Harry: I know; high maintenance.-- from When Harry Met Sally (1989)
A month ago, I would have replied without a shred of doubt that I am low maintenance.
But considering how insecure I really am under my stony exterior -- clenched jaw, burning cheeks, complete inability to concentrate are just a few of the symptoms that plague me during something as mundane as waiting for a particular person to reply to my damn message -- I wonder if the crazy possessive monster who demands this and that on a single whim in actuality rests dormant within me.
This kind of thought gives me the creeps.
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