Once there was a man who had a perfect heart: perfect shape, perfect size and not a single blemish. People would come from miles around to see the man with his perfect heart and he accepted their amazement with the casual smile and nod of the head only the perfect can achieve.
One day the man with the perfect heart was greeted by another man, as usual he showed the second man his heart. But instead of the usual awe and amazement, instead he received nothing but a passive expression. The perfect man looked questioningly at the second man, who in response showed his own heart.
This heart was far from perfect: it was twisted, full of blemishes and looked as though it had been torn apart many a time.
The man with the perfect heart recoiled in disgust.
“Why are you showing me this? It’s disgusting!”
The second man with a smile answered,
“Your heart may be perfect, but mine… it’s been broken, it’s been stamped on and it’s been in despair but it’s lived and most importantly it’s loved. To me each scar is a memory, an imprint of another on me and I on them and I treasure all of them, every single scar.”
The story just seemed weirdly appropriate. Go out and fuck stuff up people.