Imperfection is Beauty, Madness is Genius

There’s something almost poetic about stumbling across a quote that smacks you in the face with its sheer truth. It’s especially true when it’s from a woman whose life was a masterclass in walking the tightrope between brilliance and batshit crazy. Marilyn Monroe once quipped, “Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius, and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.” I found these words buried in some forgettable biography of hers during my early thirties. Unfortunately, it was a little too late to save me from the self-imposed melodrama of my twenties. Still, it was right on time to provide me a mantra for the train-wreck of my thirties.

If anyone knew how to live on the edge of sanity, it was Marilyn. For years, I played a role similar to hers, minus the peroxide blonde hair and sultry voice. Honestly, though, she only played the dumb blonde because the world wouldn’t let her be anything else. Marilyn was smarter than most of us; just ask any of her close friends, if you can find one alive. Tragic as her story is, there’s a certain camaraderie I feel with her. We both lived lives that, if I’m being brutally honest, seemed destined to end in disaster. 

In a way, Marilyn and I could’ve been almost the same person. We both spent years contorting ourselves into the shapes that society demanded — her into the iconic sex symbol and me into whatever nonsense that my family, friends, and community insistently expected of me. If I’d been free to express my true self from day one, to unleash the awkward, tomboyish girl lurking inside, I might have become something much like Marilyn. I’d be a walking paradox, wielding my feminine wiles and wit to manipulate a world too twisted to value authenticity.

But, no. Instead, I spent my youth chasing perfection like a dog chasing its tail. I seemed destined to end up dizzy and disillusioned. All the while, Marilyn’s words lingered, a reminder that it’s our imperfections that make us unique. Yet here I am, still looking in the mirror and struggling to see anything resembling beauty. Like Marilyn with her screen roles, I became an expert in creating facades. I built walls so high that, eventually, I couldn’t even remember what lay behind them. 

When I tried to let the real me peek out from behind those walls, the world had the nerve to call me mad. But, what they see as madness, I recognize as genius. My genius has been my lifeline, the only thing keeping me from plunging into the abyss. Marilyn never got enough credit for hers; maybe it’s because we live in a world that fears what it can’t understand. Her childhood was a hellscape compared to mine, though I can reasonably argue that being forced to live as someone you’re not is its own special kind of torture.

The third part of Marilyn’s quote is where I’ve most excelled: “It’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.” This I’ve taken to heart, though I doubt Marilyn meant it quite as literally as I’ve lived it. I’ve always found most people dreadfully boring, so I decided long ago to embrace the ridiculous. Sure, I leaned on humor as a crutch, hoping it would make people like me. Sadly, they were mostly laughing at me, not with me. But by now, I’ve embraced my role as the court jester — except, these days, my jokes are darker, tinged with a bitterness that sometimes leaves a bad taste even in my own mouth. 

I find myself pondering the wisdom of Marilyn’s final act, not out of morbid curiosity but out of a desire to escape the ceaseless game that modern life has become. There’s something appealing about the idea of just checking out before the game stops being fun. Yet, I never quite fit the mold of the blonde bombshell; my character is more of the awkward, nerdy girl who stumbles her way into the hearts of millions by being hilariously clumsy and tragically self-aware. I’ve written several protagonists that follow this archetype, but, as with so many things, I’ve never fully committed to telling their stories.

Maybe it’s time I did. Marilyn coped with her demons by slipping into characters she created. Perhaps I could do the same, pouring myself into the lives of my creations, losing myself in their struggles and triumphs. I’m not schizophrenic, though sometimes I wonder if the world isn’t trying to make me that way. It’s hard not to feel like the world is crumbling around us. My autism doesn’t help; it magnifies everything, making the chaos outside my window feel like an extension of the chaos inside my mind. 

Anxiety has become my constant companion, an unwelcome guest that refuses to leave. Betrayal from those I once trusted has drained whatever empathy I had left. These days, I wake up with a sense of dread, wishing I could just slip back into sleep and never wake up. But then there’s Thomas — my anchor in this storm. She’s the only person I still feel anything for, and that’s reason enough to stick around, at least for now. I’m indifferent to almost everyone else. Most days, I’m numb. Often, I can barely muster the energy to care about anything. 

I’ve thought about retreating back into the world of trivial pursuits — rambling about the competitive balance of Magic: The Gathering or waxing poetic about the secondary market of sports cards. After all, what’s the point of trying to impart wisdom when no one’s listening? Maybe I haven’t been clever enough — maybe I’ve wasted my energy on those meaningless diversions. But then, there’s history — a subject I’ve always returned to when the present becomes unbearable. There, at least, I can lose myself in the past, where the chaos of today can be filtered through the lens of time.

But, if I were to drop dead right now, would anything I’ve written matter? Would my words connect with future generations, or would they be dismissed as the ramblings of a madwoman? Perhaps my penchant for lambasting circular arguments, my overuse of adverbs, and my obscure references will one day be seen as charming. They’ll serve as evidence of a mind that, while flawed, was at least trying. Perfection is impossible; language, versatile as it is, can never fully capture the complexity of human thought. Maybe one day, when language has evolved beyond its current limitations, my words will be seen in a new light — not as imperfect ramblings, but rather strokes of genius.

Of course, it’s ridiculous to think that anyone would bother to look up the obscure vocabulary words I sprinkle into my writing like confetti. But I do it anyway, because even if I’m dead and gone, I don’t want to look like an idiot to the literary scholars of the future. Why should I care about grammar and vocabulary when I’m long dead? Maybe I am just silly, but trying, even if you’re failing spectacularly, is still better than being boring.

I can’t help but marvel at how much more eloquent people were just a few decades ago. We’ve lost something in our current parlance, haven’t we? The ability to understand even the simplest of universal truths seems to have slipped through our fingers. For all my parenthetical asides, my randomly inserted metaphors that are apropos of nothing, and my rhetorical flourishes that muddy otherwise clear points, I’ve done it all with the best intentions. I’ve tried to make dry subjects palatable, to add a little sweetness to the bitter pill of reality.

I hope I don’t meet the same tragic end as Marilyn, but you can see why I’ve feared that fate for myself. The lies I’ve lived to satiate my demons have brought me to this state of melancholy reflection. But there’s still too much left to write, too many irreverent thoughts to share, too many future readers to baffle, piss off, and, perhaps, even amuse — all at the same time.

~ Amelia Desertsong

Photo by Duran Ekiz, courtesy of Pexels