Ive always felt this way. From the day my mothers womb cursed this land with my disturbed soul and disfigured face. Sorry mom. I’ll leave your womb out of it next time. Before you start feeling sorry for me (or rolling your eyes at me), there is a good, logical reason for me feeling this way, and I’ve tested this hypothesis through rigorous testing.

Mostly, it comes down to the core truth that I’m a terrible, awful human being incapable of attaining ghandi like awesomeness. Thank you, science.

Really, I am. Completely debased and with several screws loose. My man, the Apostle Paul knew what he was talking about when he said, “What a wretched man am I!” I relate to that. If he met me, he’d have changed it to, “I guess I’m alright after meeting that chump.”

Most days, I look out for myself. I could do way more to help those in need, but then I’d have to get off the couch. If you know me, you know I HATE anything that involves standing for prolonged periods. I might have an idea to do something good or useful…but it’s so much easier to just watch ‘Breaking Bad’ for the third go around because it’s really that good. With a few episodes of ‘Community’ thrown in so it doesn’t get too heavy, though. After all, I’m not a monster. PS-can you believe Mike is on this season of Community? OMG (oh my garbanzo beans).

I don’t feel sorry for me. No one else should either. The truth is, I’m rotten. I work to be a godlier, better, smarter, respectful-er, kinder, less smelly, productive member of society. And even on my best days and most fruitful attempts, I still suck at life.

My wife’s too good for me. My kids are way better than anything I should have been able to create. I have a job that’s incredible that I feel completely unqualified for. Don’t tell my bosses. Chances are they already know.

The problem isn’t that this is true.

The problem is how it plays out.

When I realize my brokenness and play into it, I feel all sorts of awful and gross. And if it depends on myself to pull me out of the pit I’ve dug, we might as well call in the fat lady to serenade me because the game is over. Did I mention I’m fat? Maybe I could just sing and save the fat lady a trip.

I have a great life, much more than I deserve in every aspect. I have a good God that I serve half heartedly the majority of the time, full heartedly part of the time and no-heartedly on occasion. Figure out that sentence and you win the booby prize. A picture of my boobies.

Without Gods grace, all this junk would swallow me. I know lots don’t believe in this God I serve, or the grace I believe he gives me. They’d say he’s a crutch, or I’m wasting my time trying to measure up. But some days, this grace is all I have to cling to. And I’d agree, I am wasting my time trying to measure up. God told me that I don’t have to. If only I could believe that…

This would be so much neater if I had a nice bow to wrap around this turd. But I don’t. I just told myself I wanted to write more, and write honestly.

Terry Tempest Williams says, “We are healed by our stories.” So maybe that’s all I’m trying to do here. Get some healing. Put the struggle with feelings of inadequacy out there in hopes that some healing takes place and God’s grace becomes a bit more real. I never trust writers who seem to have it all out together. Figured I’d convince you I’m a chump before you get the wrong impression. For those that know me, yes, I am aware you already knew that.