I love ignorance almost as much as I love that distant smell of rancid toenails, but not as much as I love the sound of crying, ill-changed babies, nails on a freshly cleaned chalkboard, a violent and exhausting ***** two stalls down, or the jaw-work of someone gorging on a steak, swallowed down by their tonsil constricted esophagus.
I'm okay with receiving a D on a test. An F would never make me want to convulgely cry or scream WHY?! WHY?! WHY?! over and over and over again.
Perfection is the last thing on my mind. I never feel the need to sketch a circle, I just half-assedly drip it into the paper until it portrays and eighty year old man's forehead.
I swear I haven't slept with a stuffed animal since the fifth grade, because I always had the company of ten to twenty friends at any given time. I never felt pressured to look good, wear makeup, straighten my hair, and do the skinny jean thing even though they look like crap on my engorging thighs, because everyone loved me as is.
I was never picked on, I never had to try to make new friends, but most of all, I was perfect.