the little sadness that remains in my life comes from chasing after this elusive perfection.
spend a good part of my waking hours scheming and orchestrating bloody coups against every single thing about me that he hates. and every other minute a brand new flaw pops up.
hell, anybody would love me for what I am - I am quite something.
want him to love me what I can be, at least trying to be.
why is it so friggin easy to be imperfect?