Well, Stanley, You’ve Done It Again

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.