Four beers in, and sober.

I’m a small little thing. My alcohol tolerance isn’t extraordinarily high, but it damn well does the job of keeping my tolerance relatively good for how infrequent I drink.

Was an interesting day of coffee, slow thoughts, sweet talks, and remembering why I do not like people. But I do so love the ego boost.

Quite possibly, I’m an atrocious, terrible human being. But I really can’t be bothered to care anymore. Love me, hate me. I’m really tired of trying to be an image of perfection when I’m the exact opposite.

And those few that see that, call me nothing less than perfect.

Irony, perhaps.

And here I am, sober and feeling loved and touched and frustrated and really just so restless.

And beautiful. I’m not the pretties face; by god I see so many imperfections I could write a small novel on them all. But I’d rather be imperfect, than fake and plastic; hidden by layers of makeup that exceed the layers of skin we possess.

I’m sober. I’m imperfect. I’m beautiful as just that.

No wonder I make many wary…


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