A Clumsy, (Un)Planned Mess
At five am, I tripped on a car jack my dad left in the basement hallway when I went downstairs to raid the fridge of all the sugar snap peas and bruised my baby toe. Twenty minutes ago, I fell into the balcony door trying to open it when my cat kept scratching at my leg, shouting in Meow “Let me outside, human, or die.” Just five minutes ago, I spilled coffee on the counter while I was pouring my third morning cup. Am I drunk? No (but secretly I wish I am after all that fiasco). I have weak ankles, and probably no coordination on top of that, so I trip. A lot. I’ve developed an expectation where every action begins with my mantra: You’re gunna fuck it up, so fuck it up good.
It’s, uh, not my favourite mantra, or the mantra I want to associate myself with. When I made my first Medium post the other day, I decided I wasn’t going to fuck up as a writer. What did I do after I made that post?Showed it to all my friends, then disappear for a weekend (I worked overtime and I was sick, don’t judge me!) and got busy writing other things (one whole novel paragraph I won’t be using in my book because of the limited effort put in it). I’m not making excuses, especially since I have none. I’ve spent my week planning for this sort of nonsense. I already knew ahead of time that I was going to work overtime, and my illness was preventable. Also, I went MIA on my accountability partner (sorry, Daniel) for about 2 and a half days. For the past few days, I didn’t post on Medium. I didn’t read my book. I done fucked my vitamin schedule, and done fucked my everything. I fucked up as a writer, a reader, an accountability partner, and as a human.
Every weekend I fail in this sense. I want to say, “I swear, I’m trying!” but really, I’m not. I have my week planned and written down in a pretty pink planner that probably cost more than a week’s worth of groceries. I do this two weeks in advance. I can’t even blame my depression anymore, which has gone away for the time being. Who knew you could just drink water instead of debating whether it was half full or half empty? I know now. I don’t fear or resent the day when I wake up in the morning. I just kind of sit there, drinking my half full water and eating my snap peas, and stare at my Facebook news feed, littered with make up tutorial after make up tutorial I’m too damn cheap to try. In that time, I can write a post, learn something, do the dishes, but when I don’t do it. I resent my day when it’s over and I haven’t done anything to prove I lived another day.
My problems aren’t unique, or really, existent. In fact, if I didn’t care about these things, I wouldn’t even know these things could be cared about. I bother with them because I know it’s wrong. I bother because I’m nineteen-almost-twenty year old and I don’t want to be known as a slacker or a clumsy mess when I’m thirty. I bother now but I haven’t done shit to fix my non-existent bothers.
Should I stop giving bothers to botherless bothers?
No, but I should give more effort. So, to begin, I’m gunna stop spilling coffee on my counters, respond to people no matter what my bloody anxious nature tells me, and post every day on Medium for the next thirty days. I don’t have anything to lose except my pocketful of bothers. Or do I?
The major problems of my past are, well, my past now. I`ve got a future to plan, a career I want. I’ve got shit to do. The only thing preventing me from doing anything is myself.
I’m gunna use this writing challenge for the next thirty days to improve myself. Try one thing every day to improve my life. Today, I’m gunna try and compliment ten random people. Why? Because it makes everyone’s life better, and I admit I’m pretty selfish and unaware of my surroundings. Because it’s going to wake me up, and convince me to do something with myself. And I’m gunna write about it tomorrow. Here. On Medium.
“Too much effort. Just tell this silly plan of yours to bother off,” My restless mind tells me. How about you bother off, negative attitude?
Until tomorrow, at least.