Perfect Situation, Imperfect Intentions


Why do I torment myself? I am with a person who loves me. He’s good looking, fit, classy, considerate, kind, funny, and sweet. He works hard, is college educated, knows how to cook, knows how to please, know his own limits, and he behaves well in public. Did I mention his smile? Its perfect in every way. He also dresses sharp, and his is hygiene great. At times he complains about me, and I may piss him off every now and then but at the end of the day he forgives me. I go out and party like there’s no tomorrow, while he sleeps at home all alone. But when I get home, instead of hating me for being gone, he is loving me for being safe.

He is the perfect guy.

And that is my problem.

How can I live, be free, explore, if I cannot get pass his perfection? Many may believe that I don’t need to be free or explore, as I have what every gay man wants, the perfect guy. But I must be messed up in the head because I hate perfection. With perfection there is no room for improvement, which leads to a boring and stale life.

“Then why don’t you break up with him?”

Easier said then done. I can’t let go of perfection because (1) its rarely comes; and (2) I’ve been with perfection for so long that I am afraid of life without it. There was a point, this year when I wanted to leave this perfect life, but Mr. Perfect said and did the perfect things, and I perfectly fell back in his arms.

Maybe I’m just feeling emo or I just need a break. Or Maybe I’m just waiting for the imperfect guy to come and sweep me away and create chaos in my life.

Nevertheless I’m here, in a perfect situation, with imperfect intentions.

Author: Dru Macasieb

Hi, I'm Dru. I am a a life-long learner, educator, web designer, and entreprenur. I am a US Army veteran, business professional, and I currently work in higher education. Academically, I have holds a BA in Liberal Studies, BS in Web Design and Development, an MBA, and MA in Organizational Leadership. He is currently facinated with AWS, UX/UI, and Dropshipping.

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