So you know how perfection is disgusting? Like when you see one of those special people walking around, you just want to trip them into a pile of mud? And yet there’s some part of you that desperately wants to fix every single one of your flaws and become the dream human being that you’ve always wanted to be?

Since you’ve got depression critical-thinking powers, you know that everybody does have flaws. If you see a “perfect” person, you can just hone in on those tiny little imperfections. Those freckles, moles, irritating laughs, high-pitched voices, rage issues, infidelities, appetites, and other small sins. Then you don’t have to feel inadequate by comparison.

Oh wait. Except that you still do. Even after you’ve seen every single blemish of those “perfect” people, you still see yourself as coming up short. They are just so much “better” than you. Question is: better at what? Singing? Sciencing? Sexing? All of the above?

Then again, you’ve probably got one or two aces up your sleeve. Maybe you can sit on a couch for hours on end, while they get bored at around 2? Or maybe you’re so so so good at saying the wrong thing, to the point where you can get people to fuck you up? These are special skills that you, as a depressive, may be particularly well-versed in.

And that probably doesn’t do it for you. You’d probably rather have different skills that you were good at, and different flaws that are less obvious or obnoxious. Really who wouldn’t? Everyone is inadequate in some way. Everyone is lacking. Everyone is “imperfect.” And yet because everyone has so many flaws- because everyone is so damaged in different ways, there are no two people on the planet that are exactly alike.

So each person is the fucking best at being that person by the simple fact that there are no other competitors. It’s the chips in the paint, the frayed seams, the mismatched buttons, the differently sized sleeves, and the small stains that define us, and make us perfectly imperfect.