The Futility of Perfectionism

We villain-types are often seen as pitiless souls. Believe it or not, though, I do know pity. Even now, as I sit upon my stylish black throne, my fingers absently scratching at the feathers of the evil pigeon nestled in my lap, I think of my goody-goody Other Self, and oh, how I do pity her.

She tries so hard, that one, to do the right thing. It’s been in her nature since her earliest days. She’s allergic to mistakes. Settling for anything less than the best is a grotesque concept beyond her comprehension. Ever does she raise her own bar higher, higher, higher still, striving to shine as an example of all a person can achieve, can be, if they only determine that excellence is their only option.

Such a waste of effort.

The world does not reward excellence. Not consistently. Not by any ratio that even pretends to balance the values of one’s input and output. “What you give is what you get”? A lie.

What you give is blood and sweat.

What you get is tears.

Overachievers are scorned for making everyone beneath them look bad. Those who go the extra mile end up trudging on alone while everyone else pals around in a clump of mediocrity. “It’s lonely at the top”? The truth.

I’ll probably be lonely when I’m sitting atop a mountain of my enemies’ charred bones. But at least I’ll have made my point.

What is the point of all you do, pathetic Other Self?