Perfection

I remember what I read and hear. Some have called it photographic memory, but I doubt it, because half the time I can't locate my car keys. I just remember things that are interesting to me, and that's why in second grade, when the teacher asked if anyone knew what perfection meant, I raised my hand and said, "without defect, blemish, or any imperfection." I had read it somewhere before, and it just so happened that she asked the question. I got a second-grade reputation as some kind of genius for a while, and my friends have been trying to talk me out of it ever since.

I didn't know in 2nd grade what that little definition would come to mean in my life. I envy people who see the glass as half-full. I don't see it even as half-empty. To tell you the truth, my first question is something like, "Who peed in it?"

I suppose I've had a few successes in my 30 years on this earth, but honestly, all I see when I look back is a long, unbroken string of failures. I was telling Holmes the other day that a lot of my 30s might be about trying not to repeat the errors I made in my 20s. Some aspiration, huh?

If you read my blog, you get these kind of posts every now and then. I don't even know what I'm looking for. Sympathy? Maybe. Or maybe I'm just trying to get it off my chest. The optimistic side of me (a very small side) wants to reverse the negative self-talk, learn to enjoy my successes, lap up life and be content. But the mile-wide self-destructive streak I have tells me I'd be better off in a crack house somewhere, counting the hours. So far, God has spared me from that.

Sometimes I think my faith is my only connection to a sane and sober life.

And now, curbing my desire to apologize for the depressing post, I bid you good weekend.