Mirror mirror

I was never one for rules. They get in the way. I have a set of rules that I loosely follow, …when it suits me.

I think that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission.

A smile goes a long way.

You’re never so right, as when you are so good.

Confidence is everything.

That pretty much it. I often break those same rules when I see fit, especially the last one.

…Looking in the mirror, I talk to my eyes, dark liquid deep brown eyes. I can see the Cherokee blood from my grandmother in them.

Lying eyes, eyes that have seen too much pain, most of it caused by the man behind those eyes.

My mother always cooked extra food, so she could feed an extra person. She learned that from my grandmother, who having gone through the great depression, always cared a little extra, and fed many a starving soul.

Hide it as I try, bums see my grandmother’s eyes. Those eyes, misplaced in my liars head. They ask for money, mostly I give it, begrudgingly, thinking it bad luck to deny.

My mother, she has the same eyes and freely gives.

It’s not what you do in this world, but what you leave behind. You can’t leave money, only memories.

Do onto others as you would have do the same.

Mother says.

©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2012, written entirely on my iPhone.

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