Your Own, Personal, Failure

Me: You think Daily Dot'll write back ((An email MP sent to the "editors" of some "online news" crapsalad, after a woman that wishes to be a writer begrudingly ventured into "journalism" ostensibly to pay for that day's soymilk. Journalism being an actual field, it's plainly obvious when the unskilled halfassedly don its cap. Hint: you'll have to actually talk to people; news isn't the product of a sole observer's digestive tract.))?
MP: Probably not. And I'll count it against them. It's social ineptitude. What are they, twelve?

Me: Yes. Not only are they butthurt and without a clue of what to say, but it'd take too much time and effort to try.
MP: They don't know what to say? This is why they're children, adults are those who know what to say. And what is it they don't know what to say about? That they fucked up. This is the most banal thing there is, it's the bread and butter of life, you fucked something up!

Me: No. To them it's the most horrible thing there is, which they thankfully never have to face.
MP: But they do. They fuck up.

Me: Nope.
MP: Why not?

Me: Because their mother loves them.
MP: Well then the mother obviously fucked something up. What is she, Jesus?

Me: Yeah. She died on the cross-stitch.

Fail fast. Fail hard. Call it, examine it, make it as plain as possible. Not only to yourself, but to everyone that failure touched, and to any of your betters who will listen. Get it out of your system and clean yourself up. You are potty-trained, aren't you?

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One Response to “Your Own, Personal, Failure”

  1. Mircea Popescu says:

    That crosstitch zinger still gets me lol.

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