I wake up from an imperfect dream. It was mystic and meaningful, but not quite as much as I had hoped it would be. I have an imperfect hard-on. I fap imperfectly, too tired to get the massage oil. My fantasy is imperfect, I do not get off as good as last time.
I send a little imperfect prayer to god, not quite sure what to pray. I feel the godly tingle in my forehead imperfectly; it is a bit meek in the mornings.
I stand up imperfectly, the motion looks a bit awkward or even feminine. I overcompensate imperfectly with alpha walk and feel an imperfect mixture of pride and embarassment, not quite sure which one is more important.
I look into the mirror, at my imperfect beard and my imperfect body. I make an imperfect facial expression of confusion and wonder what exactly I feel. I imperfectly convince myself that it is irrelevant and it almost stops to matter.
I am imperfectly convinced that I am hungry. I leave the house, imperfectly styled and start to whistle imperfectly.
People move out of my way, but sometimes I do. I become imperfectly torn between indifference and anger about that imperfection.
I yawn imperfectly. The yawn’s electricity does not manage to reach down to the base of my spine and leaves a residue of unexpressed yawning in my nervous system. How annoying.
I imperfectly check out chicks. They smile submissively, but only imperfectly. There always is a shred of doubt or other annoying emotions mixed in.
I express my imperfect charm as I buy an imperfect apple at the fruit stand. I feel a bit anxiety mixed into my relaxed calmness. I imperfectly do not mind it.
I continue to walk to the restaurant where I get served an imperfect portion of meat and vegetables for a perfect price of 9 Euros, printed on imperfect paper.
The sensation of eating feels imperfect. My stomach was not perfectly empty. I am imperfectly annoyed, with a shred of satisfaction mixed in.
I imperfectly meet the eyes of a stranger and we respectfully and imperfectly nod our heads. I feel vitalized, with a shred of embarassment because of my homophobia. His face displays a shred of confusion.
I eat up and imperfectly wipe my mouth. I imperfectly say goodbye. The clerk seems a bit occupied and imperfectly returns the sentiment.
I walk back home, imperfectly eye flirting with some breasts and asses. The girls today are imperfect, yesterday they were prettier. I am imperfectly disappointed, with a shred of curiosity about the emotion of disappointment.
I imperfectly open the door of my house and imperfectly sprint up the staircase. I am imperfectly unaware of it, as my unawareness carries a shred of awareness about my unawareness.
I imperfectly try to solve a problem of a project I work on. It takes way longer than it should. I feel an imperfect mix of frustration and hope, wondering which to emphasize. I imperfectly – without absolute certainty – conclude that I rather take a break.
I watch an imperfect movie. It fails to elicit the drama and depth I had hoped for.
A chick on the internet writes shit at me and insults me imperfectly. The insult is mingled with a shard of maybe she is right. I put her in her place, imperfectly. The perfection is disturbed by a shard of did I express my anger just the way I meant it?
I go to martial arts training and work through the motions. I imperfectly execute my kicks and imperfectly deal with the pain and exhaustion. There is a shred of defeatism in me and I imperfectly confront it.
I spar with a girl. I go soft on her, somewhat imperfectly. She does not go soft on me and hurts me imperfectly. The hurt is mudded by a shard of well, for a girl. I decide to be more vigilant and hurt her back, but imperfectly. My mild rage is softened by a shard of well, she is a girl. Sexual desire arises every time I kick her and she flies back a few feet. The desire is imperfect, because it is in conflict with my desire to dominate her in the fight.
As I go back home, I walk the manly strut imperfectly. The walk is imperfect because I am slightly aware of it and the walkway is somewhat skewed, so one foot always dangles in the air for a split-second. I grunt imperfectly from exhaustion. The grunt is imperfect, because it is never a grunt perfect enough to release all the tension from my body.
I go to bed in an imperfect position. I imperfectly meditate about manliness, death and my place in the cosmos. The meditation is muddled by my wish to find the perfect truth.
I wonder whether it is ever possible to express yourself perfectly and thus become perfectly one with the universe. Or whether the strife for self-expression, the strife for the ever perfect yawn, the perfect release of any emotion is a dangling carrot on a stick.
And before imperfectly falling asleep – I never remember it – I imperfectly hope for another perfect day. The hope is frustrated by a shard of the knowledge that perfection is impossible.