A Perfect Speed for Imperfection.
I have done everything for you. I have been everything perfect that I could possibly be; everything that I know a guy like you would just fawn over. I have been every little thing that makes a girl appealing to a guy and his group of buddies, and to make matters even more comparable, I did most of it better than they did. I had not one single slip-up. Not one single time when I was eating and I'd accidentally spill some food from my mouth, or once when I'd trip over my own feet, or once when I'd get too drunk and spend the night huddled over a toilet like a weakling. Everything I did, I made sure to do perfectly. I made sure to do it in a way that made me so beautifully brutal that I was sure that if you didn't fall for me, you'd probably be the only guy in the world that hadn't. With you, it was like I didn't even have to try. I was so comforted and excited by the fact that I had found you that all this perfection came to me like I had been this way forever; like I had never slipped up in front of anyone. Well I'll tell you a secret: You were the first person I'd ever been able to carry myself so elegantly in front of.
Every little thing I did around you was like an art that I had mastered. It was as if you had handed me the Handbook of Awesome on the day I met you, and since then I'd been falling asleep to the sound of the instructions that played from a cassette tape. The art of being incredible was drilled into my brain. I was a full-bodied machine that could spit out any awesome wit, any awesome art, awesome sentence, awesome outfit, awesome driving skill, awesome night of drinking, or any awesome sex at the push of a button by the operator. And you, my friend, were working factory work in the thoughtless zone of button pushing, eight hours a day, forty hours a week. You were most certainly pushing every last one of my buttons.
I would go so far as to say that I was another version of you, and when we were together, there wasn't a single uncool moment taking place; no space for uncoolness in the air we were breathing. That's how you made me feel just by being around me. It was insanity in this little relationship of ours; so much fucking cool that it made my head want to explode. Everything I did was for the sake of looking wicked for you. Everything that came to me so thoughtlessly was exactly what came naturally to you. I realized that when I was with you, I epitomized cool because I was only comparable if I could match your own abilities. I epitomized fashionable because I was only favorable if I could look good for you. I epitomized revolutionary because I was only marketable if I could possibly get noticed before you did. I epitomized everything appealing because I knew that you wouldn't have given me a second of your time if I didn't prove to you that I was indeed the coolest fuckin' cat you'd ever laid eyes on. That was how badly I wanted you to want me, even if that wasn't even how badly I wanted you.
But it was at one hundred and forty miles per hour, as you clutched the back of my shoulders in a death grip from the back seat, that you quit your job at the Awesome factory, and left button-pushing to someone else with nothing better to do. You tired of turning me on. It was at one hundred and forty miles per hour, in my sweet car, stylish attire, perfectly designed hair, and seductively dangerous smile, that I truly embodied what is perfection in the world. It was at that insane speed that you decided all of the awesomeness that leaked from my pores and overflowed through my presence just wasn't enough for your untouchable persona. Until you, I thought that perfect had only one level; that if someone or something was perfect, there were no ranks as to how high or low in perfection it could be. Perfection was perfection; it was perfect. But it was at one hundred and forty miles per hour that you decided I was just too slow for you. It was at the peak of absolute perfection that you decided I was just not perfect enough.