"When you realize how perfect everything is" said Buddha (not directly to me, although we did once have a face to face on the subject of bees, but that's a story to be saved for a time when we're delirious with gin, salt beef bagels and pavement fumes on some London midsummer midnight), "you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky”. Too true, Guatama my podgy lad, too true - tho' to the inward-locked perfectionist, frustration, ingratitude and dissatisfaction feel pretty perfect too: their heady hormonal cocktail slips down a treat even though you know the moreish milky mouthfeel will curdle into an ashy aftertaste, and leave you howling at the moon rather than basking in old father sun. Perfectionists crave self-flagellation; we savour the pus-filled soul striation that comes from absolutely agreeing that everything is perfect, Siddartha mon frère, but you'd look so much better if you lost ten pounds, added a fuschia sash to those tangerine robes, tilted your head a little more coyly to the left and laughed at the sky (which looks like it might rain, actually) comme ça.
Anyway, the shootin', ski-in', vanity-publishin' dandies at Finch's Quarterly Review have surprisingly deigned to patronise a gal who patronises them and have created The Perfectionist, a shiny new section for my collection of esoteric, overblown articles about Perfect Things, which are probably much less ironic than my soul would like to believe.
I am, my imperfect fellows, open to requests.