My blind ambition for the ideal has made me lose sight of the practice. This perfectionism is a drug that I have abused and now it has driven me over the edge. I'm finally starting to understand what my friends and family have told me. I must put an end to this fanatical search. I spend most of my life at school, at work, or at home, in my room, working. My mother complains that she never sees me and she's right. I'm not even sure my brother and sister know what I look like, let alone what kind of person I am, other than the fact that I'm a stressed out workaholic. In trying to perfect what could never be perfect, I waste hours that could be better