The Perfect Woman

Locked away in my dark chamber to escape the imperfect world, I sought to construct the perfect woman. I wanted total control over how she’d look, act, and think. I gathered a collection of materials to bring this creation to life. I had everything that I needed to create the perfect true love who’d accompany me to the grave.

Starting from the inside, I installed a brain capable of individual thought, but also a chamber for like-mindedness so that we’d share something in common. We needed to like the same things and we needed to have the same feelings for each other. Included was a personality that I’ve long searched for in a woman. It was something that would truly reflect what she looked like on the outside. I was sick of being deceived by beauty, only to learn that she was a monster on the inside. On the inside, we were totally compatible.  The heart I gave her thumped excitedly, practically mimicking my heart’s exact tone.

I sewed her up and began work on her physical features. She needed the necessary features to compliment her impeccable personality. I gave her brown hair that stretched a few inches past her shoulders. I also gave her hazel colored eyes to match mine so that we could see the world together as one. Her body was difficult to build according to what I saw and thought of as perfect. If she was too big, she’d probably succumb to the media’s idea of a perfect body and torture herself to frailty. If she was too thin, she’d also fall prey to the media as before, therefore dangerously trying to have a perfect body. I’m giving her something in between, hopefully something that she can be happy with. I want her to be totally satisfied with who she is on the inside and out.

I made her out of the assumption that we’d be together and share a love that is undefined for the rest of the world, but defined by our own standards. With my own hands and standards, I’ve created a woman I deemed to be perfect.

Needless to say, there were complications.

I’ve made the mistake of playing God, constructing a woman who I thought was perfect. She wasn’t something that she wanted to be; she had no choice whatsoever because of me. I made a woman that was forced to love me. I made a woman that doesn’t even exist in this world.

Perfect doesn’t exist.

I’m living in an imperfect world and I was under the impression that if I couldn’t find perfection, I could create it. I was wrong. I’ve even come to the conclusion that my creation is imperfect.

I am no longer going to play God, and I am no longer going to search for perfection. I’ve begun my search for love and beauty in the realm of imperfection.  Whoever she is, she’ll be perfect for me.