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I admit that I am a perfectionist. I’ve always wanted to learn, and do the best that I could. Everything had to be just right, or it was a failure, and therefore I failed often. That was fine, or so I thought, because it kept me striving for better and more. It may be a way to improve, but it’s certainly not the best. Being a perfectionist, I wanted the best. I’m not sure when it started, but I noticed the problems that it caused early on. At first, I wanted to be the best at everything. However, the more things I attempted, the more things I gave up on because someone was better. At that point, I just wanted to be best at something. Such perfectionist inclination has been very evident throughout my adolescence. Back in the 2nd grade, I already displayed a knack for figuring out the spelling of words, even those beyond the vocabulary level of most 8-year-old children. I developed a keen interest in reading just about anything with words splashed on it. Everyone kept muttering about the idea that I was becoming one of those ‘whiz kids’, whose intelligence quotient soared through the skies. Since I was only a child, I didn’t allow everybody’s flattery poison my psyche. Soon, I grew accustomed to all the praises, and