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Maybe I’m Not Perfect, But I’m Fucking Incredible

Maybe I’m Not Perfect, But I’m Fucking Incredible

I’ve been chasing perfection for so long, that I lost myself along the way. I listened when they said I laughed too loud, so I stopped laughing. I listened when they said that I had weird-looking teeth, so eventually, I stopped smiling. I listened when they said that my ears were too big, so I wore my hair down all the time. I listened when they said that I was too much, that I was not enough, that I was so not perfect, that I almost gave up on myself. But you know what? I finally realized that just because I’m not perfect it doesn’t mean that I’m not fucking incredible.

I’m not a good dancer, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll stop dancing. Even if it looks like I’m having a stroke, I’m having a hell of a good time. I got 99 problems, but someone’s opinion ain’t one. I learned to live my life to the fullest, because living in fear is not living at all. So what if a make fool out of myself? I had a good time. What if I trip and fall? At least we all had a good laugh. But how am I supposed to know if I’m good at something, if I don’t give it a try? Or at least, a couple of hundred of them.

I’m not that much of a lady. I’m the one who has superhero panties alongside Minions ones and black lingerie. I’m the one who tried to seduce a boyfriend, but forgot that she was wearing socks with Nutella jars on them (they’re awesome, by the way). I’m the one who drinks beer and enjoys a really good hamburger. I’m the one who is the only grown-up in the movies when they’re showing cartoons. I’m the one who falls more times on skates than not. But still, I’m loving every single fail of mine, I’m loving every silly thing I do, because it feels good.

I’m not much of an adult, either. I eat ice cream straight out of the box and spend Saturday evening with stupid romcoms or Game of Thrones. I’m always late and hate to spend hours on dressing up. I have a dozen dresses in my wardrobe, but I’m not wearing any of them, really. I forget my sister’s birthday and I suck at picking out presents. But she still loves me, she still knows I care, even though I bought her socks for the last three years in a row.

I’m not what people consider to be perfect. I’m not curvy, I don’t have doll eyes and big lips. I don’t have long-ass legs and a tiny waist. But I’m still me. I’m still loving this loud laugh of mine, my funny body and big ears. It took me too long to accept who I am, to waste it on comparing myself to the idea of perfection. So, I created my own.

I’ll always be this dorky, funny and childish woman I am now. I’ll always be the one who lowers her walls first, and I’ll always wear my heart on my sleeve. I’ll always eat that ice cream straight out of the box and wait till the last minute to do the laundry. I’ll always have crazy underwear, because is there anything fiercer than wearing Wonder Woman panties under a little black dress? I’ll always laugh loudly and rock that ponytail with my big ears. So, does that mean that I can’t enjoy life? Does that mean that I should be body shamed constantly? Does that mean that I’m less worthy than the perfect ones? It sure as hell doesn’t.

So, what I’m trying to say is: You do you. Darling, there’s no one strong enough to be in your shoes. There’s nobody else out there who lived what you lived, there’s no one out there who dreams the way you do and who loves as hard as you do. There’s nobody out there who has the right to make you feel like you’re not worthy, like you’re not good enough. Because you fucking are. You walked through your own hell, fought your own battles and look at you, you’re still standing. You’re fierce, gentle, amazing and perfect in your own way. There’s only one you, so show the world what an amazing one that is.