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Trying to be perfect is debilitating. It is as if a painting of a large pair of eyes sits on a mantle above a hearth in front of you, taunting you, daring you to be the best you can be. And with every keystroke, the eyes blink in disapproval, returning you to the beginning. Trying to be perfect can debilitating. It is as if a nun, with a yard stick in her right hand, like a metronome slaps out the tempo onto her left palm as you try to play Für Elise on the perfect count, and with every keystroke, the yardstick slaps hard against the flesh of her palm, returning you to the beginning of the piece. Trying to be perfect is debilitating.