I have a long history of failure, and thanks to my humble pituitary gland (part of the body which isn’t thanked nearly enough) vivid memories of every crushing defeat; moments that would rather be forgotten, bind themselves to that eternally bloated cow which forms the present.
Like all trendy self-haters, the first thing I do when I feel the surging grip of failure is reflect upon all failures of the past. Each and every one of the most pathetic interludes of my life are dredged into the conscious mind to incite even further self loathing. When I was 7, someone convinced me to swear loudly at school, much to the disappointment of the principal standing within earshot, the ensuing 34 seconds linger with me now, a single cog in the engine of failure driving me into the tunnel of despair.
I am sullen; as depressed as a sloth on speed, to engage a simile that requires far too much thought to function as a point of humor.
Update: The local newspaper has taken it upon themselves to advertise my incredible defeat to the entire community, complete with a ¾ page photo, captioned “Failure strikes again.”