“I’m gonna fuck it up!” I scream at myself, internally, not using my inside voice.
There’s recurring thoughts and then there’s that blaring sentiment, skywritten through my consciousness every few minutes.
Sometimes it’s sneaky. It creeps in and you wonder why you were happy and now you’re anxious. You can be hopping along to Lil Fentanyl or whatever you kids listen to and then you’re paranoid: “does everyone hate me?” It comes from nowhere and never quite leaves, like an enchilada fart when you had a sandwich for lunch.
And now I’m sitting here, shaking my legs, and wondering just how I’m gonna fuck this next good thing up.
I think part of it is because I subconsciously blame myself for everything short of weather patterns and sometimes even then if it pours enough.
I blame myself for every breakup, every penny lost, every job that didn’t work, every argument, every time I’ve been blindsided by the disaster du jour.
My teeth grind, my legs twitch, my nails are chewed to the beds – all because I live in fear of the next failure.
It’s a swelling orchestra and the violinist plays me like a fiddle every time.
I probably don’t have to feel this way all the time. But until I don’t, it’s impossible to have an honest assessment of which way is up, what my actual limitations are, and what I can do better.
I just…don’t wanna fuck that up too.
