Apparently there are healthy and not-so-healthy versions of perfectionism. Striving for perfection, the psychologisty types say, without attaching your self-worth to it, is broccoli munching behavior. Many of us more anxious creatures fall into the “neurotic” style – being nasty to ourselves about our perceived weaknesses and presuming that they are glaringly obvious to everyone we come into contact with. Like a leech on your butt cheek sometimes we aren’t even aware of some of the beliefs we hold about ourselves. If a friend were to say to you “I expect only perfection from myself and because I never achieve it I hate myself passionately” you’d be making one of those what-the-f**k faces and telling them not to be ridiculous, yet in that shadowy cave below your conscious thoughts a little slimy sucker is happily gorging away.

I think on some mind level, (I have multitudes of them, cos I’m confused mostly class), I have felt that I am only deserving of love if I can be perfect, of course I’m anything but so all sorts of protective (often ironically self-damaging) behaviors ensue. I also suspect that I don’t trust people. To avoid being torn savagely down by them I strive manically and grapefruitlessly to be some foolish idea of, what I reckon is, the “right” way to be or I swing in a plummeting arc the opposite direction and endorse the idea that I’m crap so don’t expect anything from this halfwit.

When I loftily judge the people I love on this rocketing planet (in the future they may also be on Mars or on their way to Mars or orbiting earth for some reason or spiritually removed from space-time via meditation) I see with my haughty eye that they are not perfect. I love them all the same.