I have something to say.

I have an addiction for complete approval.
There, it’s done.
It should come as no surprise, really, though I’ve found it somehow snuck up behind me to place a rope around my neck. Way back in the winding of my DNA code, somewhere after my double X chromosome determined my gender, and before my eyes became the color of mocha, it was written by heritage and divine plan to do NOTHING half way. I operate under some warped, unspoken, genetic code that says, “If it is worth doing, it is worth doing in a way that surpasses all peers. Work Harder. Longer. Smarter. Witty-er. And dog-gone-it, make people like you.” And though generally unspoken (who would dare vocalize that nasty sentiment), I see a trend toward weighing success by my measuring tape of mediocrity vs brilliance. I can seldom withstand my own measuring, so when the tape is applied by others and could include rather than just mediocrity some measure of disappointment, it is enough to slay me.
I found myself saying to my farmboy that I think, “I have an approval addiction.”

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