I used to be a perfectionist until I stopped subscribing to the word. Perhaps all it means is that my preconscious knows where it came from and where it will go once I'm dead.

(Speaking of dead.... They're doing some work on and around my street and I noticed this morning that they replaced the NO OUTLET sign by the bus stop with a DEAD END one. I'd really like to know the thinking behind that decision.)

Now I'm a big fan of perfect nature, my laziness included. I don't feel perfect when I'm blundering, but at least I don't die like a honey bee stinging the innocent I incorrectly assume dangerous. I don't. I live to see it's perfect.

There is always something bigger going on than the stupid comment I made or what I wished I hadn't said. Jupiter is not so massive to prevent stupid comments, but can absolve them by bopping the stupid commenter on the head with an astronomy book, for example.

And my sister asked why can't we always wake up the same each day--meaning that some days we feel crappy about ourselves. My reply: because then we'd be dogs.