Imperfect perfection as a child is rarely equaled as an adult. Why do we remember games of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" more fondly than some random hookup with a hottie picked up in a bar? Adult perfection is just more complicated. Spouses, jobs, locales, children of our own that we want to stuff so full of perfect moments that they can't possibly fail in life. And hopefully don't go around picking up STD's in bars.
In late adolescence, I heard a song. It was called "Los Angeles," and it was by an outfit called X, who were quite possibly the greatest band to come out of this town in the late '70s-early '80s, and still proudly stand as one of the city's all time great groups. It appealed to my shambolic state at the time. I was often the smartest kid in the room, almost rock 'n' roll, and hopelessly out of step. I was also loud, fast, obnoxious, and fancied myself poetic. My El Camino had Torq-Thrusts with BFGs, white letters out, with the rear slightly jacked up. I had long hair a la Chris Cornell, but even attempting one of his shrieks would rip my vocal cords out.