i struggle with the idea of perfection; constantly wanting to obtain it, and constantly knowing i'll never measure up to the standards i've set for myself. my therapist suggested picking up an artistic hobby. art is not perfect, he'd tell me, and that was the mantra i would repeat over and over again while resisting the urge to tear up whatever i was working on. i wrote three screenplays before finally giving in to the urge to write a silly rom-com that will never see the light of day, simply because its lightness made me chuckle. i sometimes stare at my paintings for hours, obsessing over a single stroke of the paintbrush and how i can fix it. save it. make it better. but my therapist is right: art is not perfect, i tell myself. it is like me; evolving and changing and entirely up to the interpretation of the person observing it. so just do what makes you happy and learn to say fuck it to the rest.