Irreparable Damage or Harm to

Don’t drink the soda yet—the bag broke and I dropped them all. I’ll say "I dropped them all” and not “they fell,” because I’m taking responsibility for bagging them all together.

I ruin everything. All my clothes are worn with rips and stains. I burn cigarette holes in my car upholstery. I let friendships either fizzle out with neglect, or I find a way to smother them. My nails, I manage to chip right after painting. I leave food in the microwave for too long, or more often not long enough, and eat it cold, because well, I’d just ruin it anyway.

“A well-crafted essay is thought-out and universal.” I’m a terrific writer, I know, because I’ve always been the top student in English classes, or not far off. I’m not bragging, I just know I can write, by conventional standards anyway. I’m a grammar slut and neurotic with word choice and vocabulary. But I’ve always been a poor storyteller.

I tell the punchline too early, or forget about the most important detail. I have a terrible memory mostly, never could remember movie quotes like my friends, or who starred in the films, though film is my favorite form of entertainment, except for music. I guess film is my favorite form of active entertainment, because you have to pay attention.

People dread when I try to summarize a movie or tell a joke, for “um,” and “uh,” litter my speech and I usually lose my audience somewhere before the first act’s over. 

So the idea of universal is a tough one, because how can I relate? I can tell you my story if you’re interested enough to look past the um’s and uh’s and characters for whom I cannot do justice, and the details I forget to include, or introduce at the wrong time. But even if you look past all those flaws, can you identify with the ruin I’m trying to share without believing I feel sorry for myself? Or is it all in vain? Do you even understand what I’m getting at?

I don’t call myself “a writer.” I feel like you need to be published by some reputable publication to say that, or have written a novel or something. I think I write every day now, but I’m not a writer. Since I’ve graduated and lost the title “student,” I have no idea what I am. I mean, I’m a secretary, and a minimum-wage employee at the mall food court, but that’s not really who I am. I’m nothing right now, and that’s everything, and I hope I’m not ruining it all before it even happens because I have a habit of doing that too, and everything is tainted before I know it.