Fail, Miserable Fail, and Epic Fail

I have minor annoyances, irritations, full-on depressive-rage-inducing triggers, and everything in between.  And yet I keep trying.  And yet I keep patiently waiting.  And yet I bother to foster hope in my heart.  It’s a consequence of my faith in God.  That’s right, I blame him for this stupidity.  But at least I’m not this bad:

It’s the last minute and thirty eight seconds.  Jesus, I wish I had that much hope.  A prayer, not blasphemy, mum, really.

Mitzi Gaynor, and Rodgers and Hammerstein, bless their hearts, try hard in their world of impending armageddon, post-depression depression, racism, war, poverty, to cast a warm, home-appreciating, loving, hopeful spin on it all.  Including the whip-poor-will, a bird whose song was a death omen to the Native Americans.  Not dramatic, like a Norse Valkyrie, flying in to take the souls of the valiant fallen to Valhalla, but almost teasing.

I’ve listened to the whip-poor-will, and honestly, I don’t know if it’s a song of hope or impending doom.  They’re nocturnal and they eat bugs, so that’s always a good thing.  Bats do too.   I say, let them eat all the flying, nocturnal, infernal things.  Mosquitoes.  Moths.  Flies.  Beetles.  So maybe it’s a good thing to hear a whip-poor-will.  They’re hungry and they don’t eat souls, they eat the damned bugs.  Maybe Mitzi wasn’t wrong.

I am certain the same shit that happens to me happens to everyone.  Bug bites.  Thistles in the yard.  Weeds and thistles in the garden. Bruises. Traffic.  Bullshit politics at work.  Not having enough money to do shit you have to do.  We all have to improvise and play the games.  But that’s exactly the kind of minor annoyance, the kind of irritation that builds up.  And then the triggers hit- death, destruction, helpless chaos, poverty, broken tooth decay, war, racism, and being called fucking “privileged.”  The house falling apart when you don’t have enough money to fix the rotten boards on the outside of the house that are rotting because the construction asshats didn’t build it right.  Plumbing.  Flooring.  Carpeting.  Or being told, of my situation, “it’s not that bad.”  Or being told, “you’re not good enough and nothing you do will ever be enough.”

The answer to all of this is money.  I want the answer to be “yes.”  If I was so fucking privileged, I’d be able to answer that shit, so shut the fuck up, because by saying I’m privileged and the reason I can’t imagine I’m privileged is because I’m an oblivious racist, makes you an oblivious racist.  I try hard not to break laws and try hard not to draw attention to myself and I try hard not to offend, piss off, or threaten people in authority who have fucking guns, and if you feel threatened by cops maybe you should act like me.

If I really were privileged I wouldn’t be driving an old rusty car that needs new tires and a tune up and a few sensors that are tripping my check engine light and an oil change and better seals because there’s water in the floorboards and I didn’t drive through any deep water in the recent rainstorm or leave my windows down.  If I really were privileged I’d make more money than whichever people of whatever race get hired as newbies, instead of them starting out with more than I earn after 10 years at the company.

And yet, despite all these triggers, I get up and go in to work every day when I’m not scheduled off, I still do the dishes and laundry and other chores despite my kids making excuses – “I have homework!”  “I have an after-school activity.”  “I’m tired.”  Or the ever popular “I don’t want to.”  In their defense, when the kids realize I’m about to lose my shit, they do what I asked, and they’ve been pretty good for the last couple of days without me or Mrs M having to bitch too much.  Despite all these triggers I’m not paralyzed or deciding to tell life, and people, and my boss and my company and my family and my church and the world to go fuck themselves.  I still have hope.  It’s God’s fault.  Because I think if I didn’t believe there must be something better after this shit hole, I’d surrender.

I fail all the damn time, at the simplest little shitty things.  But I go on.  Sure, occasionally there are little emotional breakdowns.  Sure, there are occasionally screaming fits, and even occasionally rage directed at God because I don’t have the strength to deal with the shit he’s allowing to come into my life. There’s a verse I was taught some time ago that goes “A righteous man falls seven times.”  Yeah, well, I’m not particularly righteous, and I know the rest of that verse.  The whole thing goes, “though the righteous fall seven times, they rise again, but the wicked stumble when calamity strikes.”  And in the context it’s about telling people not to steal shit that isn’t theirs.  

I like verse 19 and 20 a whole lot better than 15 and 16.  “Do not fret because of evildoers or be envious of the wicked, for the evildoer has no future hope, and the lamp of the wicked will be snuffed out.”  The problem there is, even if I’m “good,” and not a “wicked” “evildoer,” I’m headed for the same fate for this present life.  King Solomon collected or wrote these proverbs.  His dad King David wrote a lot of the psalms.  David’s music director and co-composer Asaph, confessed in writing that he watched the shit people not only got away with but got rich doing, and it caused him to almost give up on doing what was right (Psalm 73).  Later the prophet Jeremiah (the weeping prophet?) wrote to ask God why.  So if I take any comfort it’s that I know people are doing the same shit they did three fucking thousand years ago and God is still making a way for people like me to just barely get through.  Sure, I’d love the abundance of John 10:10.  But abundance to me might mean something different than abundance to God.  I wish I could figure this shit out.

I fail, I get up.  It doesn’t mean I’m “righteous,” it means I’m stubborn.  It doesn’t mean I swell with hope, it means I haven’t given up all hope yet.

I bought milk yesterday, saving a dollar because of the brand at the store I picked.  It’s all milk, right?  Wrong.  Young Ms. M was equipped with a super-taster, or so she alleges.  She won’t drink that one.  Not to mention, the plastic jug has a leak somewhere.  Fail.  Fail.  Fail.  Fuck.  But it’s only three dollars wasted.  Except, instead of being nice and buying milk I could have bought a lottery ticket and might have won $151 million.  Then she can go to the fucking dairy herself and pick out her own fucking cow.  I’m not sure if she was offended by the hole in the jug or by the fact I confessed the milk I bought was cheaper than its’ next door neighbor in the same damned refrigerated case.  I tried to save a little money and ended up just throwing it away.  Fail.  It was a trigger because I seem to have the innate ability to disappoint everyone no matter how hard I try.

So I’m triggered right now, and I really don’t want to do anything, but life calls and I fucking have to fucking answer it.  I’m going to go answer something right now.  If you draw any encouragement from me being so stubborn, I hope that it is to NOT give up yourselves.

The whip-poor-will is good, and people misjudge it.  Except Mitzi.  And maybe I’m good and those closest to me misjudge me.  Including me.  I would like to think I’m good enough, that is to say, adequate.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m actually “good.” Because I know the real me that you don’t.  But I sure would like to either have the hope of a Mitzi song, or a few hundred million dollars, or more preferably, both.

After I answer the tasks that I have to handle, if I remember to, I’m going to buy a ticket if I can scrape up a buck or two.  Wish me luck.  Or pray, because I still believe God’s the one who picks the winner, and maybe I’ll have thrown away not just the money I wasted on the milk but an extra dollar on top of it, but maybe He’ll pick me.

Cynical optimism, I think that’s what it is.  It certainly isn’t cockeyed.  Because I start out thinking I have a chance, but I balance it with the knowledge that I may also have just took out a one dollar bill and lit a match to it.   Meh.  I’ll go back to work on Monday and try that shit again.

Not happy.  Not hopeless.  Somewhere in between.  Hope sits in there with me, and although I wish it were a better companion, I could think of worse ones.  


6 thoughts on “Fail, Miserable Fail, and Epic Fail

  1. If you want to know what an epic fail truly is…Try busting your butt and brain for a 7 year old who hits you and screams DIE MOMMY DIE.
    I’ll take teenage lazy petulance any time over my kid hating/loving me.

    Your kids should adore you for all you do for them.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I like your perspective on abundance. Wonderful new point of view I’m going to add to my skill set. Now, let’s get down to business…. Whoever told you “you’re not good enough and nothing you do will ever be enough.”, I’m taking names and numbers. I know people who know people that know people that know where to bury bodies. No one talks to my friend like that…. including yourself Deon…..

    I don’t know you in real life, but in this cyber world, you certainly are no failure. You are a writer and you never fail at that – proof evident in every post. I was daunted to follow you at first…. because you are so bold, intelligent, witty and honest. You state your case, lay yourself bare and fuck everything else. I thought you were like a serious kingpin blogger who would never see me because I’m nothing special or would slay me with some dragon breath. I relate sooooo much to you. But personally, money-wise, I prefer the term ‘financially challenged’. Sounds more upmarket, don’t ya think?

    To still have hope and to be stubborn is a prerequisite for the challenges we face. Its the ace up your sleeve that fuels your fighting spirit. And you’ve got it! What a success! It’s your success. Its your daily success. And on that note, since my comment is so late, you’ve probably already won the lottery, kicked your car to the curb, ditched the job, bought a sail boat and a tropical island and bought some bling that fits a blogging kingpin 🙂 🙂 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I’m rereading this and realized I never gave you names and numbers of people who call me inadequate. Having read my blog you’re probably aware that first on that list is Deon Mumple’s brain (fml!) and second on the list is Mrs M, whom for cockeyed optmistic reasons I love and adore, for lo, these past (more than) 25 years. She was and is my first and only, not for lack of indiscreet flirting with others by Mr. M (that fucking idiot- see, there’s that self critique). His dad is a flirt, and used to frequently cause his son to cringe. I hope I don’t do that to my son, but I learned the Mumple Flirting Method, or MFM, which is almost guaranteed to cause the involuntary cringe. (I love you, dad! Thanks! Don’t be too hard on him, Mum, I can personally guarantee that his flirting won’t get any return action, and I don’t think he wants it to, unless he flirts with you! Eww, keep that between the two of you please!) Third on the list is my employer, (may they make so much money they feel obliged to trickle a little more down to me, even if it’s the same percentage of profit), those corporate fuckers. There’s never enough work done, never done quite up to their “expectation” or meeting their “anticipated metrics,” which, just in my opinion, are totally unrealistic. If I were perfect, I might almost measure up to those.

      Alas, so far, winning the lottery is still “a consummation devoutly to be wished.” (B.S., Hamlet) I would kick the rusty p.o.s. to the curb, buy a couple new ones and a bigger garage, set up the college funds for the kids, and buy a small, well-shaded fishing boat with a big-ass refrigerator freezer for food and drinks and dog treats, and another one for fish and bait. And a deep, flash- fryer big enough for a big turkey, (see also A Christmas Carol except I don’t like geese), an entire chicken, or a humongous catfish. I hold such tiny fantasies so dear for such a huge fortune! And then I’d secretly go see all my blogger friends while the fantasy bunker/man+woman cave is being built in real life, and see what I could do to help them out. I’d incognito myself for travel; you’d never know it was Deon.

      I’m a cheapskate because I have to be, and because “new” isn’t always “good.” So I’d buy a two year old model of whatever it is, with an extended warranty, after reading the consumer reviews, and expect it to last as long as my waffle iron does (so far, 25 years of heart-shaped waffles, thanks, Black and Decker!) Oh, that reminded me, I’d also buy a bunch of maple syrup and a belgian waffle maker. Because the heartshaped ones are nice, but thin, and they don’t hold the whipped cream and strawberries we’ll have…

      Daunted to follow Deon? I love you for all the encouraging words you type in my direction. I’m ok, but nothing special. Just honest. When something is good, you’ll know. When it sucks, you’ll know. When I’m wrong, I have Mrs M to let me know. But she doesn’t read my blog, so I can pretend I’m never wrong. (Who am I kidding?! The blog is often wrong ,too!)

      When I win the lottery (cockeyed optimism, anyone?) you’re welcome to come to the bunker any time to eat and drink and rest and read and write and cast off your worries for a while, no strings attached except the one where you can cast a line in the fishing hole if you’re inclined. I’ll even clean it and cook it for you if you like fish.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. That’d be one hell of an exit interview. “Here, you ass holes, have some fried chicken and a cold beer! Your company sucks, and you suck, and here’s why….” I can’t say those things unless I have the cash to back it up, so here’s hoping.


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