I’m in love with imperfection. Like, deep-down, unruly, hot-flash inducing, love. I love how imperfect you are. No really, it’s true. Well, technically, it’s truth that I am in love with, and I love imperfection because it is an expression of truth.

The truth is imperfect. And, I’m telling you, that get’s my juices flowing.

I am so excited about one specific course and one specific Professor this semester. The first meeting was one of those moments where my brain starts to tingle and my heart leaps into my throat and I can’t still still and I think my hair lifts up a little too. The course reading list is brilliant and relevant and current with the texts and authors engaging in a dialogue with each other. The prof is about to get a lot of my attention. He is not interested in absolutes. He is not attached to one way of thinking about sexuality. He is comfortable with the imperfect nature of knowledge generation.

I love it!

Perfection is a helluva drug. And I’m so grateful to have put it down.