How it Feels to Be Perfect Me

It all started on the day I was born. I was a perfect baby, perfect length, perfect weight, and perfect health. It was then when my parents declared I would become the world’s greatest lawyer, because I was perfect.
When I was four years old, I loved watching Teletubbies, the perfect show for the perfect toddler. My favorite episode was when the kids for hermit crabs. I remember it because it was one of the few full episodes of the show I ever actually watched. Whenever I tried to watch my show, my parents would sit me down and make me endure the presidential debates that were broadcasted on television around the time. Both candidates were idiots. George W. Bush even created a word for the idiotic linguistics he stated on live television, bushism, and Kerry would not stop discussing a war that ended three years ago. If it wasn’t for all the people who had realized the fallacy of having an absolute moron returning to the hot seat, John Kerry probably would have only gotten two votes. These idiots did not compare to Perfect Me, the Perfect Me who could barely add or subtract and had no idea what words such as “unrealistic” and “superstitious” meant.
After another year of dealing with my older siblings’ mistakes and failures, my parents deemed me to become the perfect son. The weight of those words never really struck me until I was eight or nine, but it was alright because I was perfect so I could handle it. At eight years old, Perfect Me could describe the basic skeletal structure of a humanoid and at nine years old, Perfect Me had memorized the multiplication and division table and was reading at a sixth grade level. At eight years old, I would be the last pick for every game at recess due to my size and at nine years I stopped going out for recess and sat inside, surrounding myself with books and knowledge whilst the other children wasted their time smiling, laughing and enjoying childhood. At ten years old, Perfect Me would help out the teacher, grading papers and tutoring other students. Perfect Me was universally sought out for my wisdom by my peers, asking him, “what would be the best way to deal with a friend who I don’t like” and “how should I tell my friend I broke his transformer.” It was almost as if Perfect Me was child Dalai Lama, giving the perfect answer to all the lost sheep in the world. At ten years old, I began to run away from home after my parents whipped me for bring home any grade below an A+. This was perfectly understandable as the perfect son must obtain the perfect grade. Running away from my problems was the perfect solution as well, as you should never voice your opinion and should always avoid confrontation if you want to live the perfect life. I know this because I was born as Perfect Me so I can tell you anything about being perfect.
During middle school, Perfect Me had perfect grades, had found perfect “friends” (who, by the way, were perfect as well, but not as perfect as Perfect Me), Perfect Me had moved into an elite soccer club that travelled the nation, the perfect soccer team. Perfect me was also on the school’s MathCounts first team, placing fourth in regional’s, as well as on team gold for four events in Science Olympiad, winning two first places, one second and one third during the state competition. Perfect Me even became first chair for his violin section for a short period of time.
During middle school, I would be up until midnight. Every day I had to stay after school to finish seventy-five math problems, headed to a speed training and weightlifting class, had a science Olympiad meeting, had violin class or practiced violin, then headed off to soccer practice, before returning home around 10 pm to finish up homework. If I finished my homework early, I would spend the rest of my time before 12 continuing my job as dalai lama for at the time, only a few students. As I laid in bed every night, I was in a cold sweat not only because I was still afraid of the dark, but because I didn’t know what was in it. I could hear the shouts of my classmates asking me for help on a worksheet, my teachers asking me to explain in class how the carbon cycle works, my “friends” consulting me about a conflict with one of their friends and my parents’ statement, “You are going to be our perfect son.”
When I did fall asleep it always started the same. I would have visions of myself in an ash gray suit with a navy blue tie holding a mahogany brown briefcase, standing inches away from a door in a white room. The settings would then change almost like a flipbook, a soccer field would flip by, then a classroom, a cubicle, and even a forensics lab. Regardless of how the order pages would change each night, the last page always remained constant. I was in lying in a chaise longue, still in the ash gray suit with the navy blue tie and gripping a mahogany briefcase. I would look around the room only to realize there weren’t any walls or flooring just jet blackness, only to find a sanguine red spinning chair in front a desk that was cut from a bleeding oak tree. The chair would then swivel, only to reveal a boy wearing an ash grey suit and a blue tie wearing a bauta mask with a pair of thick rusted chains crossing his chest and over the chair. The bauta mask would then fall off, revealing short lengths of black hair hanging over a shattered mirror for a face. Perfect Me would then look at myself in the chaise longue for a few minutes, shrug off the rusted chains, put the bauta mask back on, then walk out door that stayed throughout the settings. I would then wake up shaking with tears in the contours of my eyes, which was then followed by a search for the topography of my nose and my mouth. I wanted to make sure I was still there.