Practice Makes Imperfect

There’s nothing more frustrating in the world than trying to re-create a perfect moment. Well, maybe trying to remove the smell of cat pee from your carpet might come to mind as equally bedevilling, but that’s not the issue we’re concerned with today.

By definition, a moment exists for what it is (or was), and can’t ever be duplicated. The variables defining a slice of time are infinitely beyond control.

No matter how often you frequent a restaurant to re-live a “perfect” meal… no matter how much fastidiousness you invest in carbon-copy choices to manifest another perfect date, and without mentioning how well you repeat your hand-picked poetry and soothing tones that rewarded you with a blowjob one magical evening, those moments are gone forever — without possibility of being recaptured for the exact experience you’ve attached to bliss. Trying to emulate those unique instances will always leave a subtle element of disappointment in your heart.

As it should be.

The fun in life is to recognize those “best-ever” moments, revisit them in your mind as often as you feel necessary, but never fuck with them again. They can’t be duplicated — ever — despite your most sincere efforts.

There are always new items on the menu of the Universe. There are other poems to be recited, and there are other humans to discover intimately for the first time. There’s nothing cooler than sitting at the taco-stand, declaring chicken to be the greatest filler ever created, before succumbing to a stranger’s suggestion to try the freshly caught, impossibly succulent shrimp — expanding your horizons to a “why-the-fuck-haven’t-I-tried-this-before” realization.

Routine is not a protocol that enhances the human experience. It’s a fucking crutch. It’s an unconscious excuse to keep watching American Idol, while downing a bag of jalapeno-flavoured Cheetos after a hard day in the mines.

The best of human experience comes down to dabbling into shit that scares the hell out of you. And despite the hard-core resistance we’re all familiar with, the results that often culminate are something akin to the thought-form: “Why the fuck did that intimidate me? That was awesome! What else, what else!!”

I’m not some “know-it-all,” hoping to convince you to buy my books, or any other merchandise I proffer to enhance your life. I’ll never pad my bank account by being a phony douchebag, jacked up on hearing people return cries of, “Oh, Mike you’ve changed my life, you’re fabulous!” I am fabulous, but that’s a different tale…

The ideas tapped from my keyboard today are free — shared with you because I actually give a fuck about the human condition, knowing any attempt to enhance the reality of my brethren will only enhance my own.

Haha, perhaps I am a pompous ass.

But if you can take away even one small bit of nourishment from these words to feed your soul, to move you to a grander place, my rant is vindicated.

I might have to break out my thesaurus to clarify if “vindicated” means the same as “living broke and homeless,” but whatever.

A perfect moments exists because you are in the flow of something you love. And each second you’re in love with your current lot in life, there’s a good chance you’ve got the game figured out.

All I can offer is my limited perspective of an insecure ego doing its best to find some truth. The truth I know, at this exact moment, is that I love having a laptop in front of me, to share my thoughts with the world, even if no one cares to consider them.

Is it a perfect moment? Absolutely.

And, even better, I’ll discover greater experiences as the day unfolds, ones to leave my last keystrokes forgotten along a dusty trail of fond memories.

Especially after some hard-core editing.

Peace, friends!