I'm a master of the art of messing up perfectly good things. Dishes... electronics... friendships... marriages... it doesn't matter. I have no setting for "content." I keep fixing things that aren't broken until, alas, they are.
I don't get it. I know other people do this, so it can't just be me. But what is it in the psyche that causes it? Why don't I just take things as they are?
I don't get me. I'm a mass of contradictions. I'm self-loathing and cocky. I'm laid-back, but I'm never content. What the hell is wrong with me?
My parents, when pissed at me as a child, would tell me "It's because of you that we just can't have nice things."
I think they're on to something.
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