The two ends of the bell curve, the perfect human and the worst of us, can have each other. I’m not interested in either of them, except insofar as if the perfect human were ever born, perhaps it would do something about the worst of us. The evil ones who rule the earth can go fuck themselves, I’m doing my best to opt out of their world entirely, and the perfect human? Well, it would be an interesting phenomenon, but the philosopher king wouldn’t be one of us at all.
A perfect human is no human, our tragedy is our beauty is our definition. What makes life worth living for me is to be among the ones who scuffle in the dark, always stubbing our toes, crashing to the floor, destroying what we struggle to build. I’m here for the ones who are doomed and flawed and know it and try anyways. A perfect person does nothing for me. I’m in love with the cracked ones who care.