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I do no longer aim to be perfect. There's nothing desirable about perfection. I now look at those photoshopped models with a space between their legs and laugh at the mere thought of some foolish boy falling in love with the idea of such a woman, because that's all she is: an idea. Perfection is a manufactured idea, and believe it or not, no one truly appreciates perfection. Not because it's unattainable, and because perfection as such would constantly be questioned as it is said to be, in deed, impossible to attain, but because there really is nothing about it that makes it stand out. Perfection is humanity with everything lovable removed. It's the very thing that catches your eye the first time you see a person, that stupid habit or random tick or awkward giggle someone does that you just can not get out of your head, that's what stands between them and the ideal, and without it you would not have looked at them twice. Perfection is, and has always been, a fragile porcelain doll to me, only now I've realized that something cold and hard is not something that anyone could love, and most importantly, not something I could love about myself, if I ever found that I'd gotten there. I know now that my disordered view of a perfect surface, even if it were within my reach, is not lovable. I want to be warm, I want to spread warmth, I want to leave a lasting impression and make someones day. I want to be the best me that I can be, the strongest, the smartest, the proudest. But I never want to be perfect.