Man, I have been down on my job lately.
Every crime story upset me to tears.
We couldn’t do things right and I was frustrated enough not to try. And frustrated with others’ lack of trying.
I thought a different employer might turn things around, but no dice.
And then …
And then I tried to fuck it up.
It wasn’t conscious. Consciously I was just having fun, doing what I wanted to do — not much thought was given to the repercussions. Until the next day, when I had a two-hour panic attack of guilt and shame.
How could I threaten myself like that? My identity like that?
Who am I, if not a chain-smoking, booze-swilling, black-humoured, workaholic editor and/or writer?
As I have begun, over the past months, to try to strip away some of those cliches I felt a pull back, but it only was the comfort of the stereotype that beckoned.
Not so this time. When I really and truly tried to fuck myself over I remembered that this is it, for me. This is what I need to do. This is the only thing I would do without being paid to do it.
I LOVE becoming obsessed with something different every day.
I THRIVE on the gossip, sure, but it’s being able to connect those dots to understand the big picture, even if I can’t solve it.
I NEED to know it all, to figure out how the world works, and not just one part of it, but every part of it — crime, sports, politics, culture.
And I want to help other people feel this way, too.
I want to do what I can — even if it means being glib, or dumb, or punny — to make people give a damn about this stuff.
That’s just — that’s who I am.
And that’s probably worth finding a way to not fuck up.