Listen. It isn’t easy. Fuck the platitudes and positivity. You are not amazing. You are not perfect. You are not blessed. You are a fuck up. A mistake-maker.
The thing is, we all are. We are all of us on this planet a bunch of fuck ups with cockamamie ideas and big plans. Sometimes we see them to fruition. Sometimes we become skilled at hiding our catastrophes, or sometimes we actually learn from the disasters we incite. We call each other cowards in order to feel better, look on in horror at the new ways other people fuck up in order to hide our shame.
But it doesn’t matter. We are all of us fuck ups. It is a precondition of humanness. Recognition of it is not: Some of us will wander around feeling like we’re impostors, knowing that we’re fuck ups, and imagining that we’ll be found out; some of us will wander around thinking we’re royalty in the universe when we’re really just Charlie Sheen. We are fuck ups.
In the majesty of time and space, all life on this rock is a single microscopic blip, if that. We are fuck ups, and it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re here right now, on this dirtball together. What matters is that we each have stories, and we can share them. What matters is that we are sleeping children, cradled softly in the arms of an uncaring universe. We are fuck ups. We are glorious fuck ups.