I’m starting to feel precious about each word I’m writing in this space. I’m judging each one. The joy is leaking out. I’m going for perfection which sucks (Danger: Swearing ahead.) because perfection doesn’t exist. Well, maybe it does for a half a second. Like when a rose is perfectly opened but then it drops a peel or turns brown or wilts just a tad and poof, perfection is gone. Or maybe, we move too fast to notice perfection. Like all we’re doing is going toward precious perfection and when we get there, we’re going so fast that we miss it. Zip. Gone. Missed it. And we still have that hollow feeling in our hearts: where is perfection? Why can’t I get there?

Because you’re going too fucking fast.

And of course, there’s this bit: you want someone else to tell you when something (story, painting, poem) is perfect. Or good. Or excellent. Or fill in the blank. So not only are you striving, striving, striving for precious perfection at warp speed, you are relying on someone outside of you to tell you when you get there.

Do you see how fucked up that is? So. Fucked. Up.