Saturday, September 17, 2005


All my life I was driven to perfection. The perfect job, the perfect man, the perfect weight, the perfect hairdo, the perfect life. Today, my suitcases are strewn in the drawing room (living room), my paintings and prints spill over from every nook and corner in my flat, I have piles of clothes on the floor in both the bedrooms - one for washing whites, one coloureds, one for dry cleaning, one to be ironed. I am typing this post, I have a pesto-parmesan sandwich and freshly brewed coffe inside me and I listen to Bob Dylan bootlegs and I think, "screw perfection, this is the best it could be."


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