Whatever this says about me, I have yet to discover.
Two years ago, just after Christmas Day, my best friend of just-nearly a decade had gifted me a Wreck-It Journal. Their hope was that, as a chronic perfectionist, the journal would give me an outlet. It would be something that I could feel no guilt in destroying, no shame in vandalizing, as that was its purpose. I am meant to ruin it.
Two years later, that journal remains untouched, nestled between two prior journals I had kept meticulously for years past. It sits by my bed, on the top shelf of my bookcase. It is the first thing I see in the morning, and the last thing i see at night. Many mornings, i wake up and think to myself, today is the day that i use this, the day i throw perfection out the window, the day i can finally do something without pressure.
And yet, two years later, it remains untouched.
