I’m waiting; waiting for the spark, the spark actually; that mysterious click of brilliance that flings me into my zone my world of creative genius where I can put to paper what I think are the baddest pieces of writing my mind can conceive. I’ve decided that this is the best way to wait: while acting, and that’s because the perfect time the perfect conditions just never come or almost never, so the best thing for us wretched mortals is to make do with whatever tools the higher powers choose to bless us with. And even when they curse us with empty hands, well at least we still have those hands.

Perfection exists only in Heaven, I don’t know if anyone else sees the pun in that. We seek it out so much, perfection, we never find it and yet we don’t relent in our endless pursuit of the one. With each failure we console ourselves with the reminder that it doesn’t exist, now that’s the mother of ironies for me. Some say imperfection is what defines us as human, I’m inclined to believe them; that we are flawed in almost every way imaginable; we are never the prettiest, smartest, funniest or best at anything for one reason or another. We screw up almost as much as we breathe, we fail, we underachieve, and things go wrong all the time. But then again, does that mean I will be defined by the long chain of fuck-ups that decorate my life’s walls? I think not. Definitely some nice shit – lots of nice shit will be said about me at my funeral, actually only nice shit will be said about me (that’s just the way it is, lol). And then again, is it the nice stuff that defines me? We all know the answer. So, I’m not perfect, but everyone looks at me differently: I’m the king of douche bags to some, and the best thing that ever happened to most (and I’m not talking about just my exes here); doesn’t that make me a living contradiction?

I think it boils down to this: perfection, like beauty, lies in the eye of the beholder. The world gazes upon the Mona Lisa and sees a work of perfection; I look at the same and see some chick with nothing special, I can’t even recall what the background looks like. We each see what we want to see – or what we choose to see – within the bounds of our minds. Imperfection doesn’t define us; it’s just one of our traits. The beauty of life I guess is the amazing things we do despite our imperfections. If that’s the case then perfection lies in optimist’s eye, in the half full glass, seeing all that’s right in the mess of things. And if I’m right about all that, then that would make us the creators of perfection. There will never be a perfect moment unless we make one, no perfect match if all we choose to see are imperfections in others and definitely no perfect night out without booze; yeah I just had to ruin it at the end, deal with it!

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