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Because That’s Love Too: Imperfection

February 18, 2015

Revolving doors of romance and disappointment. Eager, but petrified of the mental capacity that emotion fills. The lack thereof, equally tedious. The ability to compartmentalize “like a man” would be nice. Looking for a balance like an abundance of all the things that “perfection” would ride in on like a wave. A wave of: money and good sex, and creative fulfillment and academic praise and career advancements and California weather and New York ethics. Family at my front door and friends waiting at the bar and children who remain toddlers (who can change their own diapers) for ten years and then go off to prestigious schools on scholarship. Also abs that never form a paunch and travel to the corners of the earth and always the right music playing. AND LOVE. That is love, but love is IMPERFECTION, too.

Imperfection of debts and loans and lack of sex and creative roadblocks and New York weather and California attitude. Family at the front door and family growing old and illness and inevitable death and friends who simply can’t go to bars anymore. Children who will literally shit all over your life and cry through the best part of all the movies and then grow-up and slam doors and resent that love. Children that don’t like school. And that inevitable tummy paunch and the travel plans that get cancelled or changed last minute. And lots of terrible music. And love. Because that’s love too.

And that’s life, baby.

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