I have a type A personality. Take it or leave it, hate it for all I care, but it’s mine, and I love it, for each and every over-thought quirk, for every bit of its passion and hatred for selfish perfection, but a justified perfection, because type A-ness, this is its curse: To feel justification in decision so deeply it is made fact. To be uncompromising, relentless, and intense. To be the too much incarnate; to be hated and to hate, to be loved, and to love, but A-typically. Enter the cracks. The cracks in the glass, sand-fine and small, these cracks eat away at us, nibble and gnash till they’re either 1) Replaced or 2) Fixed with super glue (though we sure as hell know that‘ll never be the same again. Just look at it). And to be OK with these thoughts. To embrace them and dress them up real nice to disguise ourselves as put together and responsible. But the crack. We see it. We think about it. We fixate. And it may have never broken without our attention (and we realize this, but we just can’t help ourselves), but it’s because of us we crack…nay, demolish the glass with a hammer filled with every little nag, every little finger wag, every little everything. And we’re left with ourselves, the result of just too much. Type A without the WE. Until we find someone who can love us more than we love fixation.