Perfect Only In Her Imperfections.

(Pictures all from this weekend)

The view from my balcony isn’t all that much, but I’ve come to love it. It’s just our parking lot but when the sun is setting and the air is a little chilly, I love opening the door and looking out every once in a while.  It’s not perfect, it definitely isn’t our honeymoon view, but it’s pretty.

(La Tapatia with Fernanda on Friday)

I too, am pretty imperfect. I am confident probably 75 percent of the time and the other 25 I’m a mess. There is usually one day out of seven that I am just absolutely not happy with myself.  I see a pretty girl in the mirror usually, but there’s times I look at myself and want to shave my head from hair day frustration or Taebo out my growing booty I have going on from too many double cheeseburgers. I say things I don’t mean. I have a bladder problem.  I try to seem more put together than I am.  I am the most impatient person alive and if something doesn’t get done on my timing I don’t respond well. I’m attracted to anything shiny or bad for me. I always do things I’m told not to, just to see.  I try my best to handle situations accordingly and count to ten, but when I’m hurt I respond in frustration. I constantly regret the words that come out because of that.

(A couple of my girls at the bar this weekend.)

I have a potty mouth. I make friends super easily, but I don’t make enough time for the people who matter the most. I’m so unorganized that people are scared to drive in my car.  I sometimes want to feel more pain so I can relate more to a song. I’m not healthy. At all. I’m annoyingly prideful, ridiculously hot-headed, and way too stubborn for my own good. I sometimes argue to hear myself talk. I’m selfish. I’m messy.  I cry and yell and scream when I can’t handle what’s going on in my head.  I have too many bad habits. I’m at times too egotistical and at others too hard on myself. I love cheesy movies and Miley Cyrus. I have too much going on and usually don’t get everything I need to done.

(Cool bartender and Miss Vicky)

My husband loves me not because I am the most amazing person alive. I am not a rocket scientist or a super-model or a girl who even knows what it is she wants from this life yet.  I am a 20 year old, confused, slightly psychotic, girl. I laugh a lot but too loudly, I’m lovable because I’m the biggest dork you’ll ever meet,  I like myself because I try even though I fail plenty, I’m happy because I’m too naive to know otherwise. I used to have this mentality that I had to be a certain way for somebody to love me. To have something super special that made me deserving of those three little words. Nope.  He loves me simply because I am me. Because I am a dorky, insane,  usually lovable, sometimes stupid, always ridiculous mess.  Because that’s good enough. Because through all of my shortcomings, I am good enough. Not because of something crazy special I do, not because I am perfect in any way but because I am me. Imperfections and all.

Here is a great example of me being uh, imperfect. Dude lost his tongs. Guess who was playing with them? Told you I can’t resist shiny objects. You can also see my growing booty! I’m actually kind of glad it’s not so small anymore.