I suppose there are more delicate and orotund ways of putting it, but this morning it crosses my mind with the directness of a biker's "Mom" tattoo: Is there any way -- any way at all -- of getting through life without fucking up?
Beads of metaphorical and literal sweat pop out on our foreheads as we try to do something right and yet, like some quiz show buzzer announcing the results, invariably we screw the pooch at one time or another. And from there, we scurry and hustle and race to get it right ... again ... only to find some new and improved way to screw the pooch.
It doesn't help matters that we do get things right. That only compounds the weight of getting things wrong...which elevates the station of getting things right ... which elevates the station of getting things wrong. Whether we dissolve into a pool of helplessness or race like a roadrunner to make things right ... still there's no getting around it: We fuck up. Love, hate, employment, travel, religion, tattoos ... pick your poison and right and wrong assert themselves.
If this broadbrush assertion is anywhere near to being true, then I think it would behoove anyone to slow down a bit and take a look. Fucking up is like the hair on our heads or the toes on our feet, isn't it? The hair grows and there are five toes on each extremity. What else is new? It is what it is, isn't it?
We can't evade our mistakes and we can't evade our successes, but we can take a look and relax a little. Is what someone else thinks really close to the truth? Is what we ourselves think close to the truth? Whether praying devoutly or cussing up a storm or wallowing in self-pity ... well, still we do what we do and the best we can do is to keep an eye on it, correct our errors, try not to self-congratulate too much and fuck up as usual.
Just don't be a fuck-up.