Perfect 9.99999999
The Olympics, combined with the romantic ideals of Valentine's Day, seems like a good time to write about something I've been mulling over: being perfect. I don't want Mark to call me perfect. Actually, I'd prefer if basically everybody would refrain from calling me perfect. Part of that preference may be a wish to avoid the pressure to be perfect. But a good chunk of not wanting the label "perfect" is because I know that you know that I'm not. I rarely make the bed. I usually cook only once a week. Cleaning the apartment is usually the bare minimum [which in my definition means putting away the dishes and laundry, and scrubbing the toilet]. I often don't respond to emails; sometimes I just never read them. In the first four years of owning a car, I knocked off a side mirror twice [first I knocked off the left one, and I couldn't find a side mirror that matched the color of the other one, so I just waited a couple months until I truly-by-accide