Mad about Lists

I am not a serious case but I’ve been listing all kind of things since I can remember. I make lists and even collect a few. Though I believe this “condition” is genetic, at the same time it must have a lot to do with our own individual personalities.

When my daughter was in her teens she used to ask me if I had any list for her to read, especially if she didn’t had a book at hand. I always wondered how she could enjoy reading my lists. That was before I found myself reading other people’s lists too.

I step into my own lists here and there. Shopping, dinner parties and trips have always been good reasons to keep me writing lists. My latest is trip/shopping related. It’s absolutely prosaic. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing introspective.

Some time ago I tried to list things I don’t like about other people but soon I found it boring and a little pretentious of me. Well, someone I read from time to time found interesting to publish a list of individuals making us happier when not around. I suppose I read it just to find out if I was somehow included in that “persona non grata list”. I couldn’t find a single reason. (Whew!) I endorse a couple of them: “Anyone who shoots animals for sport then claims to love nature.” I smiled because of a few: “Paulo Coelho and anyone who reads and quotes from his books.” (Ouch!) I couldn’t approve some of them: “Bono and his cowboy hat.” or “Anyone who’s not French but wears a beret.” (Ouch! Ouch!) You should have the right to wear whatever you like without being ostracized because of it. I thought Lady Gaga had made it clear. In the end, I just asked myself if someone with listing mania shouldn’t belong to a list too.

Well, I suppose I would write as number one in my own hit list the author(s) of the stupid law forbidding Pit Bulls, Rottweiler’s and Dobermans to walk the streets of Maputo

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