I’m a perfectionist. No, that’s not right.
You could call me a perfectionist, although I use that term lightly. Wait, no.
Perfection. Some say that I am but a puppet at the mercy of the strings of my condition. Some say? How cliché!
This curious affliction of perfection, it straightens the oxbow lake of my life. No, no one will understand that.
When in the course of human events... Real original.
That which is perfect runs through the very fibre of my being. No, no! It’s all wrong!
What I’m trying to say is that I’m working on it, okay?