Somewhere, there is this
perfect me that I’ve concocted in my head. Her apartment is always clean, she
excels at work, she’s in the perfect relationship, twitter never rejected her
verification request, her roots never grow in, she doesn’t get zits, she’s always
fair and never impulsive, everyone admires her, she isn’t afraid of driving,
she has a 6 month emergency fund, she never falls asleep with candles burning.
She’s essentially me but the exact opposite.
She’s everything I’m never
going to be. The truth is, I kind of hate myself. And I think that might just
be part of life. I’m trying to be enough. But even “enough” these days feels
like a dirty word. Because more is more and more is better and more means
waking up and feeling accomplished, feeling happy and feeling satisfied.
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