My ambition for the ideal made me lose sight of the practical. This perfectionism is a drug I have abused, and now it has pushed me over the edge. Finally, I'm starting to understand what my friends and family are telling me. I must put an end to this fanatical quest. Most of my life is spent 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 being an overworked workaholic. Trying to perfect what could never be perfect, I waste hours that could be better

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