Monday, June 29, 2009
1. a fear of imperfection, defects
If atelophobia is wrong, baby I don't want to be right.
Yeah, I get this. I myself have never known what it's like to not be completely perfect. I get up every morning and go look in the mirror, searching desperately for some flaw to have manifested in my perfectly shaped features, my chiseled jawline, my perfectly defined brow. But goddammit I always just see the same Greek God standing before me, perfection to it's core. Some mornings I even appear to be glowing, and yesterday for some reason I realized that my hair had turned into pure gold.
So I think, OK, that's fine I can deal with being physically godlike, as long as there is some flaw in my character or personality, my opinions or intelligence then I can rest easy. So I search and search and search and still I find nothing. My wit is sharp, I have an IQ of 189. My political views are fair and balanced, perfecting tittering on the brink of what is right and good and moral and smart. I always say the right thing. I win every contest I enter, every endeavor I attempt is successful, every word uttered from my perfectly shaped mouth, divine. My oatmeal is always perfectly cooked, my hair does not have split ends and rumor has it that Aphrodite brought in a picture of me to her plastic surgeon when she got her nose done.
It's not that I fear you mortals with your issues and your acne and your horrible human attributes, it's just that I don't understand you. And I feel like I give and give to you specimens of flaws you just take and take and take from me.
"Eugenia, I have polio, touch me so I can be cured."
"Eugenia make this water into wine."
"Eugenia come hang out with me so I can know what Heaven is like."
And if one more of you falls to the ground weeping as I pass you, desperately trying to touch the hem of my garment, I'm gonna lose it. You people just have no boundaries. Did I give you permission to touch my wings, little blind girl with the horrible red birthmark shaped like India on your face? No, I did not.
So I suppose I have developed a slight phobia about the epidemic of rampant imperfection that seems to affect everyone but me. Can you blame me? Maybe you people should stop being so envious and needy and try and put yourself in my diamond studded perfect size 7.5 shoes for a second. Not as easy as it looks eh?
On an end note, if you crazy lunatics try to touch me again my bodyguard Sven will put you in a headlock, because unlike me--who has never known what anger is like and can remain clam and poised in the worst of situations, Sven has issues with rage and has no qualms with killing or physical annihilation. Just ask his wife and kids, oh wait you can't: they're dead.