In the perfect world, calculus would be a defunct subject.
All the females would look like Christina Hendricks have godly skin, shapely waists and glossy hair.

And Karen Carpenter's voice.

The males would be like Don Draper and Sterling Archer. Probably.
Sans the douchebaggery and chain smoking, of course. I don't know.
We'd all have Wisteria Lane houses, with white picket fences, immaculately trimmed hedges, and friendly neighbours.
Imagine that. A utopia, in every sense of the word.

That kind of perfection, it's unreal.
Don Draper and Sterling Archer are assholes.
Karen Carpenter had a severe eating disorder that eventually claimed her life.
Wisteria Lane has more than its fair share of dark, murky secrets.
Even the word 'Utopia' comes from the Greek word for "no place". No place. You cheeky Greeks.

Perfection is a myth.

And to be perfectly honest, who needs that kind of perfection?
You know how something sweet tastes nice, but something unbearably sweet makes you sick to the stomach? The very same funda applies here.
Simply put, Perfection is boring. Imperfections maketh a man.
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I seem to have come down with the cold of the century. My brain is slowly dribbling out my nose. This is probably another one of those acts of God. By staying put indoors, I can't get soaked in the rain and die of pneumonia.

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