Last Friday, like every Friday, we ate out. Summer hours are over at work, so I got home something after 5PM. I ordered pizza within a half-hour or so after arriving. We ate at about 6:30.
Apparently, that is too late. I’ll spare you the details, but it was too late, and I fucked up by waiting instead of ordering ahead.
So, this week, I tried my damndest to get the dinner on time. But, lo! I had forgotten I had spoken with the children last night about dinner and I had, though I don’t remember this, settled on Chinese food. But what’s this I bring home? Quaker Steak and Lube. Chicken wings.
“I hate chicken wings!”
How did it come to this? What was I thinking? Well, they ate chicken wings from Great Northern a few weeks ago, so I thought they must have liked them, the mess of them, the fingers all sticky, whatever.
Anyway, I fucked up. Again. I keep fucking up. Honestly, I don’t intend to be fucking up so much, but I fuck up nonetheless.
Fuck.
So, even though I did indeed try my damndest and got home at a respectable time, I still fucked up.
I went out after I got home and got Chinese food.
They didn’t eat it.
Some exciting entry, huh? Quinn fucks up everyone’s night. Again.
God-fucking-dammit.
I’m sick of this — of trying to guess what everyone wants and being crucified when my gut is wrong. I’m trying — I’m really trying to be good, to do right, to get things in order. It’s not good enough.
Fuck this. I wonder why anyone wants to be alive. It’s only a goddamned dinner, but it’s exemplary of so much more. I just can’t do a goddamned thing right, and the more I worry about doing it right, the worse it seems to come out.
And why bother? Is there so much as a hug after doing well? A pat on the back? A firm handshake? A sudden look in the eye and an easy smile? OINK. OINK. OINK.
I’m gonna go watch The Great Fairy Rescue with my girls. They love me.
Leave a Reply