I’m far from something that somebody could describe as perfect. I’m a lot of things, in fact, though perfect. I wouldn’t put on that list.
What good would being perfect do?
If I was perfect, would I have already found the love of my life? But then again, what’s the point of being loved for somebody that you’re not.
I’d much rather be hated for who I am, than loved for what I’m not.
You can tell me that I’m too loud, not that funny, indecisive, too excitable. In fact, you can tell me a whole bunch of things that I am. You can even tell me you don’t like any of it. But I guess what I’m saying is, what does it matter if you don’t? I’m not living my life for you. You can be whatever you want. And if that’s alright with you, I think I’m just going to keep being whatever I want, whenever I want.









