to be human.
I think it is a person’s imperfections that make them so attractive. I would never want to spend my time around people who acted flawless, because I would know that it was only that; an act. Give me the people with some scars. Give me the ones with baggage and skeletons and secrets. Give me those who aren’t ashamed to admit that they are human. A person with no cracks is a person who hasn’t lived long enough. And the ones who have always have better stories to tell.
I met a girl once who liked to say she was perfect. She liked to hide beneath her faultless disguise, and she thought that she was actually fooling people. I couldn’t stand her. As much as I tried, it was impossible.
Friends and lovers who wear such masks never last long. I prefer the ones with bruises.
