I seek to put it all down on paper, to somehow espunge this pain from my psyche, like scraping your foot on the grass to rid you sole of the pile of dog shit you stepped in. Walk around backwards across the whole lawn, the stench of dog shit follows you anyway, signaling to all those around that you are that guy…

Oh, to not be that guy. Return to that guy who no one noticed. That guy that you couldnt quite see, had to look at out of the side of your eye to catch a glimpse, never seen head on.

But now I was in the spot light, and like a bug caught out at night I was scurrying to get to cover…


©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2011, written entirely on my iPhone.

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