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I feel like a slug, inching around, dragging my belly. However far I’ll go will not be far at all. I don’t know if it is the heat, the time of year, the pandemic, my ongoing depression, or all of the above.

I put pressure on myself to fix this situation, but what is broken?

There is no perfect job, perfect body, or perfect soulmate. I can have something genuine in my life instead of always frowning upon anything deemed imperfect, which winds up being everything.

I chase so many aesthetic goals that I mix them up. I want a lot of stuff, but I also want minimalist clean lines. Then, I wonder if I ever wanted either of them let alone both at once. Frankly, do I care about any of this?

Do I care about the accent walls? Really?

Do I care about trendy neighborhoods? What does that even mean?

When did I become so fluent in bullshit?

My fixation on perfection is a placeholder for my life. I can’t go there because I’m not thin and pretty enough. I can’t say this because I’m not smart enough. I can’t try this because I’m not trained enough. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

I can’t be perfect either, but I somehow make time to keep trying for that pointless goal.

I want to remove the placeholder though I’m scared.

I’m scared to see what exists under or outside of my fantasy perfection.

Not too scared though.

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