Manhattan No: 3
I've always been good at confrontation. Standing up for myself and those I love is easy. I can argue politics and philosophy till I'm blue in the face, debate whether or not you should really buy that Prét unlimited coffee subscription (sorry Noelle) or flat out tell you that boy you're talking to is probably trash. But what about confronting myself? What about staring down the injustices and immoralities of my own soul? How good at am I at that? Admittedly- it is a weak point. My fatal flaw is pride. It makes me swallow hard when I'm corrected and burn red when I answer wrong in class. Combined with my pride is a devastating desire to be perfect. This duo of pride and my perfectionism means that it is excruciatingly difficult to admit that I'm wrong, and then when I do confront it, my first instinct is to wallow in shame and berate myself for the mess I am. All too often I become a sulky child in the corner petulantly telling my Heavenly Father, "You just d...