Notes from the Red Bird House

I  want to not be "perfect". Oh, by no means do I believe I'm perfect. I'm decidedly imperfect, flawed even. I'm human. I do human things. I make mistakes, say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I fail quite often, more often than average. So, if I'm not perfect why do I not want to be "perfect"? After all, aren't I already there? Check it out - an unexpected success.  Not quite. The difference lies within the quotation marks. You see, they say I'm "perfect", insist on it actually. Regardless what I do or how much I stress the inverse, they cannot be swayed. Stacee Harris is "perfect". Perfect for them? I always ask. No, "perfect" period. And that's when the gray clouds begin forming and I pull out the egg timer. I can assure you with the absolute greatest certainty that my "perfect" is not perfect for them. How do I know? The egg timer. Once I am deemed "perfect" I have the half life o

The Sounds of Silence People ask me why I'm not writing. I have several reasons. First of all, it's winter break and I spend enough time writing during the semester. Secondly, my computer has been sucking lately. Above all, though, I just don't like what I'd write. And I'm sure the ones asking after it wouldn't like it much either. I'm not in a bad place. I'm in a place. It's a familiar one. One that has me asking friends to remind me that I'm a survivor. Deep inside, I know I am. But in this place, I need the reminder. I need to hear it or read it in a text. I need someone to tell me that I've made it through before and I will again. Love is fickle. Not my love. My love is solid, sure, and unwavering. Until it has to become less solid, less sure, and waver a little. Mind you, it's never by my choice, the wavering. I do it for sanity. And to not seem overly pathetic. They make the choice, they become fickle and I am left with one ch