Perfect in its imperfections
I surrender the battle for perfection
And to self inflicted punishment
When perfection is not reached
Lately, I've been obsessive over the word perfect.
I'm terrified to grow a moustache. I don't want to shave. I don't want hair to slightly tickle the bottom of my nostrils. I don't want hair. It's another one of those things that irritate me.
If you don't want to be sympathetic with me, then just stay empathetic. If you don't want to be neither of them, then go fucking be apathetic and leave me the hell alone because, quite frankly, you're just a shit bag anyway. Again, I hate the fact that I curse. It's a habit that I picked up one day. Honestly, it just happened. One day, I banged my knee on the table, and a "fuck" just escaped my mouth. Not my fault.
I'm not depressed, and I'm not happy. I'm medium. The size between a large and a small. That's me.
Anyway, I shouldn't be saying all of this, but I have to. Actually, that's a lie. I don't have to. I choose to.
Does being perfect mean that you don't do anything wrong? Does it mean that I can't curse of drink a can of Pepsi when I want to? Does it mean that I don't have the time or will to be concerned with life's everyday petty little things? Does being perfect mean all of that?
In that case, fuck perfection. If it can't bend its definition to apply to me, then I don't need it.
I want somebody to catch me. I want them to watch what I do to myself. I want them to watch me skip an insulin dosage or eat twenty too many grams of carbohydrates. I want them to watch me go to Wal-Mart and get the generic two liter brand of Pepsi and then sit in the parking lot in my car and down the whole damn bottle. I want them to see me do it. I want them to see that I'm the furthest thing from perfection. Now, I'm not supposed to be skipping insulin dosages or drinking pure sugar mixed with some damn high fructose corn syrup. No. None of those things. But I do anyway. My imperfections make me perfect. Make sense?
I have cuts. A lot of them, but not in the place you would think. The cuts aren't really cuts; I guess you could call them random slashes. Anyway, they're on the inside of my thighs, and it hurts extremely badly when I walk and they chafe together. But that's what I get for not having the perfect weight: thigh chafing. Really, it hurts like hell. And no, band aids don't make it better.
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Review please?