Perfectionists Untie!
The biggest irony of all is that perfectionists are imperfect and if that doesn’t completely upend them I have some other suggestions that might
Carefully misalign your collar. Smudge something on your chin not quite in the middle. Blob a shock of ketchup on your nothing-goes-with-ketchup dinner plate. Lisp. Drop a dime and don’t pick it up. Whirl the clasp of your necklace to the front. Leave a coffee ring. Go bump in the night. Leave your participles dangling.
You know, just be your askew awry alignless arsehole self. It’s a cinch!
Also perfectionists are overachieving bad decision-making anxiety bots and I know it’s mean to make fun of them because it’s like a condition I guess but seriously. How far do we take this? Do I have a condition because I am untidy and generally don’t give a fuck? And if so, what is my condition called? Imperfectionism? LOL. I guess so. Except I am perfect at debauchery which is a bit of a mind-fuck I know but I don’t care. I am perfectly delighted to loll around in states of domestic or culinary imperfection with others of my ilk.
However. I don’t mix well with perfectionists. I just don’t see the twain
So I told you about my two jobs and it’s weird how the deadlines align almost perfectly. There’s the twain! Both jobs are huge and they have the same print date. Thankfully one of them is being printed in Vancouver and once I hit send, it will be gone forever or at least until I get my copy and experience that moment of terror like when you find yourself on stage in dreams or in the lineup at No Frills in just your underwear unless that’s just me in which case me neither.
The terror is because I’m afraid I’ll find a typo. They’re tricky fuckers
And because I am a typographer by trade, I have all kinds of typo anecdotes but most of them are rude and predictable and should have been words like shot, crab, luck and peanut.
I used to do the packaging for President’s Choice and once this label went to print. TUNA IN BROTHEL.
Somebody did it on porpoise.
So a priest, a minister, and a rabbit walk into a bar. The rabbit says, “I think I might be a typo”
Anyway it’s Friday and the edge seems to be wearing off winter doesn’t it. There’s talk of it going up to 7 on Sunday which means nothing to me because I have forgotten Farenheight and can’t quite get the hang of Celcius either. I go by the same system my mother went by. “Go stick your nose out the door,” she’d say. Which is how I know which coat and if yes to leotards or ski pants.
The weather guy who says it’s minus nine, like today, but feels like minus twenty two is probably going by nose too
And I guess it’s just coincidence that I just got on the train freezing after single fingering those last few paragraphs and I clamoured over isle dwellers into the last seat in the world and plunked right down and started typing again without realizing I was thawing until something landed on my screen and it’s snot from my heretofore frozen nose.
The body is a tricky thing. You’d think you’d be used to it by now what with all the practice and all but still sometimes you’re wrong. Things drip and other things are sometimes not as silent as you expected
Which is always good for a laugh.
