Top Ten Ways You’ve Failed

Nicholas Muszynski

You failed five minutes ago. Badly. Now, you have to live with it.

You look at yourself in the rearview mirror. Honestly, it’s an improvement. The blood compliments the redness of your eyes wonderfully. And that gash on your forehead, Oh Man! Wounds are the perfect accessory for that masculine bod, especially when they’re raw and throbbing. You’ve found your vibe, everyone’s got one and yours is Killer.

Now that’s just a vibe, you aren’t a real killer, not traditionally. You haven’t killed anyone, at least not yet. But you have been killing it for years. “It” being your future. You’ve slowly tortured that poor son of a bitch. Yanked fingernails out one by one, then the toenails when you ran out. Bruised your future until the arms were tattooed in blacks and blues. Black and blue circles upon circles upon circles. Beat it with the wrench of incompetence, the pliers of ignorance, and the hammer of inaction. Why did you torture your future? Why the hell did you stab it through the heart five minutes ago? You feel sorry. As if you weren’t the one who killed it.

But all that melodrama is the possible concussion talking, or the concoction brewing in your liver, likely both. You haven’t literally killed the imaginary personification of your conceptual future. You’re stupid for even thinking that in the first place.

This can’t be your worst failure. You’re sure of it. You’ve bounced back from failures way worse than this one, just have to remind yourself of them first. You have to think back on your past failures. Find one worse than this most recent one. Make a list of your top ten failures, in order from mild misstep to life-fucking fuck-up. See where this one lands. Find out that it’s not that bad. You’ve done worse and your future survived those.

10. Flunked a Spelling Test

Everyone’s flunked a test in their life. You’ve flunked many. That’s a good word: flunk. Gives failure a jazzy vibe. You didn’t fail, you played to a different rhythm. You sang out “Flunk the establishment!” and told the rules to “Go flunk itself!” as you misspelled four and five-letter words like a flunking rebel.

Too bad your kindergarten teacher, Mr. SomethingOrOther, didn’t see it that way. Instead, he saw the F on your test as a sign of “an unmotivated student” implying that “motivated student” isn’t an oxymoron. He told Dad and Dad told you, daily, for weeks. He kept on repeating how this’ll affect your future, that grades determine what college you go to, and that college affects the resumé. The resumé was your household god. Your paterfamilias sacrificed goats for the almighty resumé so that it may, when the fateful day arrives, fairly judge his sinful son and grant you entry into the heavenly corporate world.

Sometimes when he’d lecture you, a strong heat rose from your fingertips to the nape of your neck. The heat seeped into your tiny, tiny brain and you had to yell. You never yelled. The heat compounded in your head. The temperature hit 373.15 K by the end of kindergarten. It was unbearable. Still, you didn’t let that heat out. It boiled your brain juices.

You know an F from kindergarten didn’t change much. It’s a failure, sure, but even you can tell that it’s not the failure of this short-short story titled “10. Flunked a Spelling Test.” Are you so worthless that you even failed in the title?

Can you trust these titles? Titles that you thought of. If you can’t, what can you trust? Don’t think too hard about it. Try to trust yourself, or pretend to at the very least.

9. Forgot Grandma’s Face

Grandma died and you didn’t say goodbye. It happened sometime in fourth grade, March probably. You saw her last for Christmas and she got you a scarf. It had a tag on it from Target. It cost her $3.95, clearance. You never wore it.

Later that year you had to write a short story about your family. You wanted to write something for Grandma. It felt like the proper thing to do.

You wrote the first line. “Everyone has a grandma, but my grandma is different because she’s mine.”

Shit start. You erased it and tried again. “My grandma gave me a scarf last Christmas. I love it.”

You didn’t, but you couldn’t not love Grandma’s final gift. The story would turn out better if you loved it. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to lie in the first line.

No matter how many times you rewrote the opening line, you never found the words. You could never write the story. There weren’t enough memories or emotions to hit the measly two-page requirement. It took a little under half a year for you to move on. You couldn’t even remember her face. It was featureless, a blank sheet of wrinkled skin. Some grandson you turned out to be.

You wrote about going to the carnival with your cousins instead. It meant nothing and you got a B+. An 88 out of 100 for a story that cheapened the paper you scribbled it on. A blank page would’ve been better. Fourth grade taught you the most valuable lesson of all: less than nothing is nearly 90 percent of the way to perfection.

You knew that sounded wrong, felt improper. Such a shame that it was correct. Your teacher’s red pen proved it.

8. Sold Your GameCube

You made sure to bring your old GameCube to college. You can’t remember a time before you had it. Surprisingly it still worked. Nearly twenty years old and it played perfectly. Still ran Mortal Kombat: Deadly Alliance like it did way back when. That was the first game you played on it. Dad must’ve thought three-year-old you could handle the polygonal entrails and pixelated blood.

That stuff didn’t bother you, but Dad’s win streak did. He didn’t give you a freebie, you had to earn the win. Surprise, surprise, the preschooler who couldn’t count to ten never won. Your Scorpion never bested Dad’s Sub-Zero. You watched Scorpion get pummeled, shanked, amputated, decapitated, etc. until you stopped playing with Dad.

A guy you met in college asked you for the GameCube. You refused at first. Then he pulled out a twenty.

You bought two sandwiches from Jimmy John’s with that twenty. They weren’t bad. It was worth it. That GameCube was worth less than a cent to you. You practically stole that guy’s money. And he didn’t catch you! You were one smooth motherfucking criminal.

Wait, no, you were an entrepreneur! A quick-thinking, quicker-talking businessman turning a worthless GameCube into two hearty sandwiches.

You were smart to get rid of that decades-old, heavily-used, scratched-up-from-travel-in- the-trunk-to-your-relatives, recently-retrieved-from-your-basement-because-you-wanted- to-bring-to-college, silver-colored-because-you-begged-Dad-not-to-buy-the-purple-one-because- purple-was-for-girls-despite-the-fact-that-you-really-preferred-how-the-purple-one-looked, worthless GameCube.

You feel pain. Nevermind, you don’t. Forget about that.

7. Got Too High Too Fast

“Want a hit of this? It’s Peach Cobbler.” Your roommate offered you his cart. You took it, you didn’t tell him that you hadn’t smoked before. You asked what he meant by Peach Cobbler. He explained that it’s the name for the particular strain of weed: fifty percent sativa, fifty percent indica. You nodded like any of that meant something to you.

You took a six maybe seven-second hit. Then you took another one right after because that’s what your roommate usually did.

It didn’t take long before you started begging him to hold your hand. He accepted with a sigh. The world wasn’t right anymore, your body didn’t belong. If he didn’t hold you together, then it felt like you would split into a million grains of sand.

You tried to explain the feeling. That you were no longer a single entity, one, but that you were many forced into the shape of one. That you were supposed to be so many things, so many distinct things, but being many scared you, and even though being one was wrong it was comfortable. You didn’t realize how little sense you made.

Your roommate let go. He told you to get some sleep and left for the night.

6. Punched a Kid [Not Hard Enough]

In second grade, Dad told you Santa wasn’t real. He probably got tired of you asking Santa for things like a time machine, a million dollars, and a clone to hang out with. Santa’s magic could have whipped those up in no time, hell, Santa could have solved all your issues if you asked him nicely. Parents can’t do that, they’re boring. Even second graders know not to ask them for fun stuff.

Your classmate Ralph insisted Santa was real. A debate broke out between you two. You put forth your evidence: Dad’s testimony that all parents lied to their children about Santa. Ralph countered with his: The Polar Express. Dumbass thought the movie was live-action and that Santa cameoed as himself.

The argument went nowhere. You couldn’t argue against childish stupidity. As a last resort, you sucker-punched Ralph in the nose.

Next thing you knew, you were flat on your ass. Ralph had a cannon for an arm and held nothing back. The full weight of his grade-schooler fury hit you squarely on the chin. You really had it coming. The ordeal taught you to knock someone out with the first hit.

The Santa believers won that round.

5. Lost Your Virginity 

You didn’t go to prom. You were cool. Cool enough to have sex.

Instead of going to prom you hung out at your girlfriend’s house. You had been dating for a month, and both of you planned for this to be the day, the culmination of your horny adolescence.

Her parents were home and you pretended that this didn’t scare the shit out of you. Those glances towards her door and the sweaty palms definitely outed you.

Even so, the moment had come.

You went in.

Twenty seconds later, you went out.

You left soon after with your tail between your legs. You couldn’t bring yourself to talk to her for some time after that. You didn’t message her back or pick up her calls. She broke up with you during the following week. A whole ass week of ignoring her and you still wondered why she broke up with you at the time.

You got too excited. And when you get excited you do things fast, really fast.

4. Cried Watching Up

Before experiencing loss and before spending nights pondering love and death, you watched Up. You didn’t know the word miscarriage yet and you didn’t know why the happy couple became sad. And when they became happy again you didn’t know why. You didn’t know that people could comfort each other in times of sadness and stress, that they had to comfort each other because no one can comfort themselves. Rather, you can’t imagine comforting yourself. And since you can’t, no one else can, otherwise the world’s unfair.

These were the first complicated moments of your life. You didn’t know anything but you felt everything. Then when that fictional woman you had met ten minutes before was gone, you cried. You cried for the lonely old man and mourned those short happy moments.

Dad laughed. Not even now, being as jaded as you are, can you figure out why he laughed. Was he laughing at the silly animated movie for trying to get him to feel things? Or was he laughing at you for falling for this meaningless crap? At you, who cried real tears for fake people and fake emotions?

You learned that crying is wrong. Dad didn’t cry. You can’t cry.

You watched Up one more time after that. A decade and a half later during the summer before college. The urge for a return to childhood hit. You stopped it before the opening montage finished. It threatened to make you cry. You didn’t let it win.

You wonder if this is why you didn’t cry for Grandma.

3. Yelled at Dad

That summer before college Dad confronted you for choosing that major. That major without job stability or a clear career path. That major gets students debt, an addiction to their drug of choice, and nothing else. You chose that major.

“College’s expensive,” he said. “I’m scared you’ll waste your time there. That you’ll change your major anyway and spend all that time and money for nothing.”

You wanted to say something like “This is my dream,” or “Time and money mean nothing when I’m pushing towards my dream,” or anything that had the word “dream” in it.

But you didn’t. You felt stupid thinking that word. Felt stupider when you pictured yourself saying it to Dad. You imagined how he’d laugh at your corny ass speech and how small you’d look. You always imagine yourself smaller than you actually are. You’re doing it now.

You see your past self the size of a chihuahua barking up at Dad. You don’t remember what you said, only that you made noise. You could’ve been barking like a rabid animal, it wouldn’t have changed a thing. Nothing you said mattered, you didn’t say what you wanted to.

Dad didn’t yell back. He didn’t show you that kindness, instead, he left the room without another word. You two didn’t talk about that major again.

2. Dived Into the Deep End

You couldn’t swim in third grade. Nevertheless, you joined a couple of friends on a trip to the nearby waterpark. You told no one you couldn’t swim. Of course, you didn’t.

Tyler did a frontflip off the diving board, Andrew did a backflip, Colin cannonballed, and Sam belly-flopped. Your turn came. The diving board wobbled under your weight. Inching towards the edge, you heard your friends call out different tricks for you to try.

“360!”

“720!”

“Corkscrew!”

“Cannonball!”

“Colin did that already, dumbass!”

The voices faded away as you looked down. Your toes curled over the edge. The water waited right below, hungry and antsy. Your smell teased it and it pulsed from desire. It wanted to take all of you. You knew it wouldn’t let go if it caught its prey. The darkness within it held many things, and it wanted to make you one of them.

You backed away.

Then you charged forward. You didn’t flip, corkscrew, or cannonball. You slipped. You went too fast and slipped off the diving board. In the air, you thought about time. How fast time moves and how fast you have to move to keep up. The few times things slow down are when you don’t want them to. Like just before you make a big decision. It’s like your brain knows how you’ll fuck up. And this slowness is your brain pleading for you to think again. A part of you always seems to know when you’ll fail. That part’s usually too shy to speak up. You can almost hear it when time slows. When you think you’re nearly able to understand it, time speeds up.

You hit the water. You sank, but you didn’t thrash around. The water would’ve won anyway. Falling deeper, you weren’t afraid. Running off the diving board wasn’t a mistake. Alone and content, you embraced the depths.

A lifeguard pulled you out. Laying on the hot concrete, staring right at the sun, you realized that you didn’t fail at diving. You failed at feeling fear.

1. Got Drunk, Crashed Your Car, Waited in the Wreck for Five Minutes Alone and Confused, Told Yourself You’ve Done Worse, Made a Top Ten List of All Your Worst Failures To Convince Yourself That Crashing Your Car Wasn’t in the Number One Spot, Put “Crash Your Car” in the Number One Spot Anyway.

Five minutes ago you were a freshman in college. Now, you’re some drunk asshole who crashed his car.

You write a how-to in your head. You call it “How To Crash Your Car Like a Proper Ass.” It goes,

Step 1. Drive to a party you know you’ll leave drunk.

Step 2. Shotgun two Four Lokos. You can’t stop at one, that’s not enough. It’ll taste like shit. You deserve nothing better.

Step 3. Take a shot of Vodka, a shot of Gin, a shot of Tequila, another shot of Vodka, and a final shot of Vodka. Do all that in forty-five minutes and you’re golden.

Step 4. Take a long hit of some guy’s weed pen. Brag about how you usually smoke Peach Cobbler. How it fucks others up but does nothing to you. Actually, mock the guy for smoking such weak shit. Laugh at his puny pen. Fill those vapor breaths with clever jokes. Jokes about size, those are the funniest and painfully clever. So painful that you cough. Finish by saying your pen is the superior one. Bigger too. Don’t whip it out, though. This isn’t the place for that. Still talking about weed pens, right?

Step 5. Puke. Watch all that wasted fun juice splash in the toilet bowl. Want it, crave it. Imagine diving in. Imagine the red, stringy chunks float around you. Imagine how much the acid and liquor burn. Get lost in the porcelain bowl, let the swirling purge fluid mesmerize you. That used to be in you. It shouldn’t be out. It must go back in. You must become whole again. Blink. Refocus. Flush it. Don’t let anyone else know you puked. They might not give you more drinks if they do. They might even kick you out.

Step 6. Make one hell of a scene. Push your way to the center of the biggest room. Just scream. No words, words are useless. They don’t say shit. Words are good for faking it. For pretending to care and acting like you know. They’re good for a B+, but screams are better for honoring Grandma. Really expresses the pain she must’ve felt when her grandson wasn’t there to say goodbye.

Step 7. Don’t get kicked out. Punch the guy who’s trying to kick you out. Hit him in the chin, dead on. A significant fucking strike. It’d make Dana White and all those roided-up UFC guys blush. Smile as he crumbles. Say something cool. Say, “Flunk you, Ralph!” The guy’s not named Ralph. It’s a callback. No one else gets how magnificent and poignant it is.

Step 8. Scamper out of the party like a small rabid dog. Don’t order an Uber, don’t call your roommate to pick you up, don’t walk. Drive. Don’t drive home. Drive somewhere else.

Step 9. Drive. So. Mother. Fucking. Fast. Some Vin Diesel, Dominic Toretto type shit. Become Fast & Furious, 2 Fast 2 Furious, Tokyo Drift, whatever the fourth one’s called, fuck it! become Mario Kart, Mario Kart 64, Super Circuit, Double Dash!!, become those two exclamation marks, you fucking love Double Dash!!!, add that third exclamation mark because why not! lose all punctuation screw it you dont need commas or apostrophes where youre going youre going to 80 miles per hour land the happiest place on earth now your driving to 90 miles per hour world the happiester place on this oily grimy dirty blue and green marble called earth can this jalopy hit 100 it sure as shit cant but that wont stop you baby you want to die. You want to die? That’s not true. It’s probably wrong. Think about it, if you really, really wanted to die you could’ve done it many times over by now. For starters, you could have repeated Step 3 ad infinitum instead of ad nauseam. Let your foot off the gas. Slow down. Think. But there’s not enough time. Step 10 has to happen.

Step 10. Hit something. A bump, a pothole, a squirrel, anything. You won’t see it. Swerve into a ditch. Don’t die. Assholes refuse to die.

You chuckle at the little how-to. It’s pathetic and that makes it funny.

It’s 3 a.m., someone’s bound to drive by eventually. And when they do, they’ll call 9-1-1, they might even make sure you’re okay. If they do check on you, you’ll smile at them and say, “Is this not the McDonald’s drive-thru?” They won’t find it funny, that’s why you will. And you know who you’ll have to talk to? Dad. There’s no avoiding that shitshow. What’ll he do? Well, there’ll be a lecture, there’s always a lecture. You’d try to write it out in your head, but you know that’d take up at least a hundred brain cells of space. With all that drinking, you’re probably down to a few thousand. Will he let you go back to college? Don’t ask stupid questions, dumbass. You know the answer.

You open the car door and fall out. You puke on the dirt. It tastes like Vodka.

Dirt gets under your fingernails as you crawl away. There’s a beetle in the way. You picture yourself crushing it, but you don’t.

You’re failing right now. Badly.

You’re not thinking right. You keep on thinking weird shit, scary shit, terrible images you didn’t imagine, terrible sentences you didn’t think. But you did imagine them, you did think them. Can you ignore them forever? Pretend they’re the perverted creations from an isolated corner of the mind? That this isn’t you?

You have no one but yourself right now. No one’s here to help you up and pat the dirt off you. There isn’t a shoulder in sight to cry on. Did you realize that you’re crying? Because you are. You are crying.

Crying feels good. It shouldn’t. Criers are sad and boring or they’re babies. A new thought enters, one that isn’t terrible. “Go on, you don’t have to stop.” It’s not a voice you’ve heard, but it’s been hidden in your mind for too long. It’s raspy and the words shake ever so slightly. You can hear their lips trembling, their throat tightening. Whoever said this was tired and beautiful. She was warm too.

You listen to a voice that’s not your own, and you don’t stop crying. You don’t want to stop the tears as they warm your cheeks.