F——king up
Some days ... I swear.
I know that being human is an ongoing experiment in imperfection. I get that. I don't expect to be perfect. In any way. Never have been, never will be. But I go through these periods where I am just a total fuckup at nearly everything I do, and I have no idea why it happens.
Now, before you try to console me and tell me that I'm just having a bad day/week/month/year/whatever, and that everyone goes through this and shit happens and all that, know this: I have always been somewhat of a fuckup.
It's true. I always let little things slip through, or I ignore things or get distracted and don't notice when things have gone to shit. I'm not as meticulous about things as I'd have the world believe. I am often oblivious. I fudge details. I am not the sort of anal-retentive taskmaster I like to pretend to be. In fact, I'm pretty laid back about most everything.
And sometimes that results in me getting shit wrong at work. And it drives me up a fucking wall that I let that happen. Because it shouldn't. Thousands of eyes are watching.
People (myself included) read newspapers and get fucking giddy when they notice things that are wrong. It's probably because newspapers purport to be publications of prestige and record; we are the final word, the bit that, were we in a movie, would be spinning toward the camera in a dramatic attempt to have meaning and finality. So when I fuck up a news page, I am essentially pissing on posterity. That's not an easy burden to carry.
I don't know where my fuckups come from. I sometimes wonder if it's a problem that stems from some sort of undiagnosed ADD. Can I blame the internet, or those several years that I spent juggling three jobs and full-time classwork, where I was never really focused on anything? Or is it just me and my personality?
Just now, when writing this, I had to leave and take a breather on the balcony. I'm not sure I can do anything in one sitting anymore. I've got a dozen windows open at all times: A dozen eyes peeking into other realities, each one vying for my full attention.
And for what? I have no idea.
I am terrified of being the weakest link, of being looked at as the one who can't be counted on to get shit done. I have always prided myself on being the type you could go to if you needed to make things happen. But I'm not sure that's me anymore. The older I get, the more wiry grey sprigs crop up on my scalp, and the flakier I am.
I want to fix it. Now.
[I got really excited when I stumbled upon Fuckup.co.uk, a compendium of fuckups, but what a letdown to find that there's only one confession on the entire site. There's a gap in the market; someone needs to make that shit happen.]
I know that being human is an ongoing experiment in imperfection. I get that. I don't expect to be perfect. In any way. Never have been, never will be. But I go through these periods where I am just a total fuckup at nearly everything I do, and I have no idea why it happens.
Now, before you try to console me and tell me that I'm just having a bad day/week/month/year/whatever, and that everyone goes through this and shit happens and all that, know this: I have always been somewhat of a fuckup.
It's true. I always let little things slip through, or I ignore things or get distracted and don't notice when things have gone to shit. I'm not as meticulous about things as I'd have the world believe. I am often oblivious. I fudge details. I am not the sort of anal-retentive taskmaster I like to pretend to be. In fact, I'm pretty laid back about most everything.
And sometimes that results in me getting shit wrong at work. And it drives me up a fucking wall that I let that happen. Because it shouldn't. Thousands of eyes are watching.
People (myself included) read newspapers and get fucking giddy when they notice things that are wrong. It's probably because newspapers purport to be publications of prestige and record; we are the final word, the bit that, were we in a movie, would be spinning toward the camera in a dramatic attempt to have meaning and finality. So when I fuck up a news page, I am essentially pissing on posterity. That's not an easy burden to carry.
I don't know where my fuckups come from. I sometimes wonder if it's a problem that stems from some sort of undiagnosed ADD. Can I blame the internet, or those several years that I spent juggling three jobs and full-time classwork, where I was never really focused on anything? Or is it just me and my personality?
Just now, when writing this, I had to leave and take a breather on the balcony. I'm not sure I can do anything in one sitting anymore. I've got a dozen windows open at all times: A dozen eyes peeking into other realities, each one vying for my full attention.
And for what? I have no idea.
I am terrified of being the weakest link, of being looked at as the one who can't be counted on to get shit done. I have always prided myself on being the type you could go to if you needed to make things happen. But I'm not sure that's me anymore. The older I get, the more wiry grey sprigs crop up on my scalp, and the flakier I am.
I want to fix it. Now.
[I got really excited when I stumbled upon Fuckup.co.uk, a compendium of fuckups, but what a letdown to find that there's only one confession on the entire site. There's a gap in the market; someone needs to make that shit happen.]
Labels: drunkblogging, my special stupidity, randomosity, work
posted by theogeo | 9/28/2007 02:38:00 AM
3 Comments:
I remember an entire group of young children who were supposed to be "gifted" yet utterly lacked the ability to see anything done to completion, despite the most ambitious of intentions.
Wonder if that has anything to do with it?
Fucking balsa wood.
Don't feel bad. I have made quite a few mistakes at work, which requires corrections on a national scale. Somehow they still let me write (mostly because no one else has the nerve to go back to work the next day and face up to the music.) We are in the business of crafting history every day and sometimes human error gets in the way.
Baby, I have checklists, Entourage reminders, task lists, people coming along behind me and asking me if I did so-and-so, and I *STILL* fark stuff up. After 25 -- count 'em! -- years in the bidness.
That was meant to be encouraging, by the way.
All you can do is take steps to reduce the opportunity for errors (see above; also difficult in a turn-it-around-15-minutes-ago business like ours), monitor yourself regularly, and keep in mind that you are a hoomin bean and that hoomin beans are made to make mistakes. Some, like me, are just better at making them.
Also, whenver I start to freak out over something I let slip (after eight other pairs of eyes have seen and missed it, too), I try to remember the tale of the "Persian flaw," in which Muslim folks who weave such beautiful rugs intentionally insert a tiny flaw in each to remind themselves that only Allah can create perfection.
That doesn't help when the editor is snorting coffee at you, but maybe it will later.
As always, I send you hugs and admiring smooches of encouragement at your talent, honesty and determination. Harry also sends kisses to the kittehs and reminds them to comfort you properly.
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