不请自来

完美的牢骚骚到痒处

牙痛，不请自来。
爱情，不请自来。
岁月，不请自来。
灾难，不请自来。
爸爸说：
我也是，不请自来。

≪我不是完美小孩≫ 50页
几米 作品
ISBN 978-7-5110-1956-1

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计划

完美的计划都会出错

早上，我兴奋写下一天的计划。
中午，我焦虑计划只实现一点点。
黄昏，我懊恼计划大都没完成。
晚上，我承认又是计划失败的一天。

但不论是心情多么低沉的夜晚，
天光大亮后，都是崭新的开始。

≪我不是完美小孩≫ 42页
几米 作品
ISBN 978-7-5110-1956-1

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打分数

完美的野兽懂得生存之道

野兽生气啰，请大家赶快逃命啊！
野兽抓狂了，大家都快点躲起来！

请让我自己慢慢平息心中的怒火，
请让我自己学习面对自己的愤怒，
野兽也会慢慢懂事的……

妈妈说，发火的野兽今天只能得到59分。
为什么大人这么喜欢为小孩打分数呢？

≪我不是完美小孩≫ 27页
几米 作品
ISBN 978-7-5110-1956-1

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头痛

完美的偏见必然傲慢

我常常感到疑惑，为什么？
喜欢独立思考的小孩，常被叫作怪胎。
喜欢发表意见的小孩，常被说是捣蛋。
喜欢躲在角落的小孩，常被说是孤僻。
喜欢站上舞台的小孩，常被说是爱现。

大人常常抱怨小孩让他们头痛，
但他们相信吗，他们也常让小孩头痛。

≪我不是完美小孩≫ 17页
几米 作品
ISBN 978-7-5110-1956-1

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I Wanted to ... ...

　　I awoke when the sun rose. My body was sore, my cheek textured with the imprint of the forest. I'd slept six hours, maybe seven. Pushing up into a sitting position, I adjusted myself away from the two circular puddles under the heath.

　　The city was waking up. Engines sputtered in to life, brakes screeched, birds sang. On the street below me, a school-age girl stepped off a bus. She was alone and walked quickly down the street, a bouquet of flowers in her hands. I couldn't see what she carried.

　　I exhaled. I wanted more than anything to be that girl, to be a child again and carry crocus or hawthorn or larkspur instead of buckets of thistle. I wanted to search the North Bay until I found Elizabeth, and apologize, and beg forgiveness. I wanted to start my life over, on a course that would not lead to this moment, this waking up alone in a city park, my own daughter alone in an empty apartment building. Every decision I'd ever made had led me here, and I wanted to take it all back, the hatred and the blame and the violence. I wanted to have lunch with my angry ten-year-old self, to warn her of this morning and give her the flowers to point her in a different direction.

　　But I couldn't go back. There was only now: this forest within the city and my own daughter, waiting. The thought filled me with dread. I did not know what I would find when I returned to the apartment. I did not know if she still screamed, or if time, solitude, and hunger would had collapsed my daughter's lungs completely as a rising tide.

　　I failed my daughter. Less than three weeks after giving birth and making promises to us both, I had failed, and failed again. The cycle would continue. Promises and failures, mothers and daughters, indefinitely.

The Language of Flowers, P316~317
Vanessa Diffenbaugh
ISBN 978-1-4472-0882-2

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