We Need to Talk About Our Friend JavaScript

I’ve had enough of her crippling OCD


JavaScript is one my friends — and I like her. I really do. But the truth is, she suffers from low self-esteem and crippling Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, and no one wants to tell her.

Last week, I called JS up and told her that our buddies HTML & CSS were coming over for a quick run and then some dinner; she should come, too! First JS said, “You don’t really need me there.”

Then it got worse, “I don’t really feel like running right now.”

After that, it was hard to know what to do. Sometimes JS doesn’t show up until you console her — and by that, of course I mean, console.log( ) her — but other times she won’t even be consoled. There are so many variables in her mood swings.

Exasperated, I explained that I was calling JS specifically — yes, you, JavaScript! HTML and CSS both need you, I said.

So JS said “she’d maybe think about coming.”

…uh huh, right.

And that’s a bigger issue, because when JS shows up it means major problems for me. My house has to be entirely in order before she can even come in the door. We’re talking every object arranged — set exactly where it belongs, with very particular spacing — down to the seemingly irrelevant details: Even the couch pillows have to be placed a specific way.

That’s why I only let JS walk down certain hallways; otherwise, she gets persnickety. The last time she came over, she pointed out a bunch of random junk and asked, “WHOA. What is that?”

“Oh, just some old stuff — I don’t remember its function,” I commented, blocking it from her view.

But at least JS made it into my house that time, seated on the couch and even chatting with HTML and CSS while I left to check on dinner. I loved seeing them together, one happy little webpage.

Er, not quite. JS went and rifled through my sock drawer while I wasn’t looking! And that’s when her OCD really kicked in: My socks weren’t paired correctly. (And I’m not saying she’s wrong; I’m just saying it’s her own damn fault for looking at things that don’t even matter to her right now.)

“Why aren’t your socks paired correctly? Why? Why? WHY?” she screamed, turning red. “WHY ARE YOU TRAPPING ME HERE IN THIS DISGUSTING PIGSTY; ALL I WANTED WAS PERFECTION. ERROR. I CAN’T FUNCTION THIS WAY.”

I mean, really, JavaScript? That outburst was unnecessary, and I’ve had enough.

I’m calling jQuery next time.