Smiling Critters 2: The Story Continues.

You Should Know I've got a Plan.

(📢)

I've got a plan.

I'm ashamed to say it in public, even around my teammates. They are good companions and friends, but they are not reasonable, they are capable of quickly judging me about something.

That's why I don't tell them. I prefer to keep it to myself, dream and think about my things, without anyone else knowing.
Then they judge me because I don't talk to them. But if I talk about something, they judge my opinions.
Could they mind their own business the same way I mind mine? It's more of a question than a complaint...

I try to be a good spy, a good friend and a member of the group. I want to assert myself.

That's why I obey.
That's why I spy.
That's why I put up with my own overwhelm.
That's why I keep quiet.
That's why I push myself to the limit.
That's why I work.

To make myself feel valued.
Even if I wanted to yell at everyone.
I still want to be valued.

But my efforts are as vain as my pleas for silence and tranquility are vain.
I still feel like I could bring out better potential in myself. That I cannot fail.
That doing it well is not enough. I can always do better.
That I can always make it perfect.

"Perfect"...
Sounds abstract, doesn't it?
But for me, its meaning is clearer than water.

For me, "perfect" is zero failures, zero defects.
One hundred percent organized, one hundred percent effective.
That when you execute it, the result is as expected, and even better than your expectations.
And for me, above all, the best thing is that the result is satisfactory, especially if your plan is aimed at a good goal. At something you long for.

If it fails, if it is not organized, if it doesn't meet your expectations, if you didn't like the final result, then it is not perfect.
And I need it to be. It is not a whim; it is a necessity. The need to be truly alive.

In fact, that's my fear.
My perfectionism is what truly keeps me alive. Otherwise, I would be of no use to the group. And if I'm not useful to the group, they'll end up kicking me out. Or worse. They will end up killing me.
The boss is just as perfectionist, but the difference is the result; If he fails, we forgive him because he is the boss. If we fail, the retaliation can be extreme.
Our failures could be paid, according to the boss, with the worst of deaths if this failure was in our hands to be avoided. If it wasn't in our hands, it didn't matter that much.
But I feared him. I was afraid of retaliation.
So I worked, worked and worked, thinking of perfect plans, of ways to feel useful and in the long run feel alive.
But something was always missing.

Until now, I was always missing something that fulfilled my perception of "perfection".

Now I had them, I had what I lacked for perfection; Their names were Picky and Bubba.

Picky is, to me, a pretty insignificant and easy to fool girl. She had nothing special, she had no grace, no education or intelligence. She was a vast pig, very unpolite and poor-mannered.
Bubba was the other side of the same coin; He was a cultured, educated, hardworking and intelligent guy. He always tried to put himself in someone else's shoes, although I understood that no one really thanked him for that sacrifice.

So, knowing one and looking at the other, questions arise.
What unites them in friendship? What makes them be such friends?

Maybe it is because of that theory of the magnet; feel sympathy for someone different from your personality.

But that friendship was very poorly structured.
The apathy I had for the pig turned into a hatred so strange that it blocked my throat and got on my nerves.
And I only felt apathy like that just because she was friends with Bubba.