Some people claim to be perfect;
But do you think perfection exists?
You've come home from work, as always there are purple hydrangeas on the kitchen counter.
You sigh loudly as you pick them up and throw them in the trash as you have been doing every Friday for the past three months.
You scowl at the two other trash bags lining up in the kitchen; all completely filled with purple hydrangeas.
You shake your head and ignore them; you head to your empty bedroom and grab your phone because you were in a rush this morning.
You have a voicemail, from him; do you remember him?
You don't take the time to listen to it; you erase it, just like that.
You head over to the mirror and smile; you can't help but to smile even wider when you realize how perfect the reflection staring back at you is.
You run your fingers through your long silky blonde hair and smooth out the red blood dress you're wearing that complements your perfect, skinny waist.
You mentally thank him for buying you the perfect eyeshadow that brings out your bright blue eyes and the pumpkin spice scented lotion that smooths out your long tanned legs.
Then, the computer catches your eyes.
You go to google and for the fun of it, you type in "what is perfection?" Already knowing the answer to that your self, because you are a model after all.
In seconds, the Internet has you laughing.
You cackle when someone with a ridiculous username says "perfection doesn't exist."
After some good tasting wine hours later, you decide to call it a night.
You turn out the lights and dream about perfection.
Three weeks later, it's a Friday; and you're feeling quite bubbly.
Your boss wants you to go on tour with two other of his best models.
You're excited.
And for once you're glad to come home to purple hydrangeas.
So when you open the door to your apartment and you notice there's no purple hydrangeas waiting for you, you sulk all night long.
He's given up on you.
The next morning, you're not so excited anymore.
You're determined.
Today your tour bus leaves.
So you smile lightly.
All the while you're throwing on sweats, shoving an ugly sweater on, pulling your tangled hair into a pony tail; leaving the make up off and you stomp into your dirty old boots.
You make your way to your bosses office.
You start talking once you see his horrid face; you internally laugh.
But you feel confident, just the way you are.
You look him in the eyes and give him a friendly smile.
"I quit. There's no such thing as perfection."
And you leave, just like that.
You mentally remind yourself later on to like 'duckasoraus-rex98's status when you can.
And when your phone rings, you pick it up immediately.
"I'm ready to talk", and you're glad he hasn't fully given up yet.
A week later as you're reading a magazine which states that the other models quit as well, you enter your apartment and inhale the amazing scent of those purple hydrangeas; it isn't even a Friday.
Later that day, you're cuddled up on the couch with your husband, who you haven't seen in half a year, watching America's next top model.
You both let out embarrassing snorts when you see your ex-boss in the audience holding up a sign that says "perfection is the key."
You shake your head; silently disagreeing.
Perfection is definitely not the key.
Your husband kisses you lightly on the head as you let your eyes shut.
You both whisper "I love yous" and you dream about the baby boy you'll be adopting tomorrow; which is a Friday.