SUMMARY: What is perfect?
DISCLAIMER: I own everything biyotch.
When people think about life and how they want it to be, they want it to be perfect.
Ask anyone how they want their "perfect" life to be, and no one ever says "Alright." No one ever settles for the car with the dent, the house with the leaky roof, or the job that pays less than you'd like.
Everything has to be "perfect". But no one knows what "perfect" is, because "perfect" has never existed, nor will it ever.
He's not perfect. He's too heavy. His face is too acne scarred. His hair is too greasy and his fingers are too stubby.
She's not perfect. She's too short. Her breasts aren't big enough. Her chin sags a little. Her nostrils flare. Her arms have chicken skin.
They're both fed up with being "imperfect". But then again, isn't everyone?
He doesn't care. He wants to be a nerd, he even thinks he looks respectable in glasses. He'd like to lose a little weight, but only because he'd like to be healthier. For himself, not for anyone else.
She doesnt want to be taller. She thinks she'd look ridiculous with larger breasts. She likes the cuts up her arm, because they show her personality off, and scare other people. Perfection is for corporate jerks who like to follow the fuckin' system.
If anyone else ever wanted to choose nearly perfect, it wouldn't be either of these two. But for each other, they are.
Well, they think so. They hope so, because there's no one the other can communicate so well with each other.
She dreams of an old, run-down federation style house in a nice suburb in Sydney somewhere. Unruly kids running around, a boy and a girl.
Twins, if she can. With strange names, old fashioned and uncommon.
She wants an old car, preferably with dents so if she accidentally backs into someone, well, it's not as if she's destroyed her pride and joy.
She wants things to be familiar and comfortable. A nice battered black leather jacket that's been worn a thousand times. Shoes with the souls falling off that fit her just right. Worn in rather than worn out.
He wants a nice house, with his nice friends. People who respect him for who he is rather than what he should be. If there's no one like that then he's happy anyway. He would rather be alone than in the company of arseholes.
She loves him anyway. It's unconditional; she's known him so long she better bleedin' 'ad do or she'd be buggered.
He loves her. She's odd and unpredictable and doesn't mind that he can't provide her with perfection. Well, what he thinks society believes perfection is.
But he does give her perfection. He's just the right amount of comfortable and warm and cosy, and worn.
In, not out.
She is his perfect. She loves him the way he is. She doesn't want him to change, well, maybe wash his hair once in a while.
But other than that, he is perfection. Even with it, he is perfection.
And he loves her unconditionally. He doesn't want her to change. She dresses Gothic and wears painful spikes and chains but that's just part of her charm.
So perfection when and fucked itself, and while it was doing so, they found each other.
And they weren't perfect, but they sure as hell weren't imperfect.