Just one thing

Cupcake wants to know something.

If you do one thing perfectly— say it’s skating a perfect spin, or weaving a flawless carpet, or loving someone completely selflessly—If you do just one thing right— doesn’t that sense of rightness, of symmetry and grace somehow raise the standard of who you are?

Even if it’s all fucked up at the end. Even if, say, the judges at the ice rink look away while you are in the air, missing your glorious spin, your leotard's sparkling, your ponytail's leap, your perfect stance— Even if no sooner is the rug lifted from the loom than some kid with a glass of grape Kool-aid wanders in and trips, spilling the whole thing on your masterpiece— Even if the person you loved somehow randomly decides that you are toxic to them even though you only ever gave them sweetness—(and in nature, not one thing that's poisonous tastes sweet, not one—)

Then don't you still get credit? Somehow? Somewhere?

Fuck.