What about me?

My generation works a lot. Somehow work schedules stretched, somehow we lost our time. We have this huge pressure to be perfect. Bookstores are filled with shelves bursting with book about how to be perfect: the perfect mother, the perfect wife, the perfect worker. Perfection has became a human obsession.

We look at our colleagues, our friends, strangers on the street, and we immediate know how to make them perfect: cut some hair, lose some weight, leave your idiot boyfriend, start working using your brain.

I can do all that. I can find the most perfect solution to an absolute stranger. What about me? Why can’t I just be that efficient with my self?

This entry was posted in Ick, Meism, Working Class. Bookmark the permalink.

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